Forever's Day
by Toasters and Rockets
Summary: Viking 1 was a pioneer, but his creators still abandoned him. This is the story of his mission's end and its aftermath, told from multiple POVs, both appliance and human. Rated T for some swearing.
1. Prologue - To Boldly Go

Do you know how it feels to fall from the sky? How the rusty red surface of Mars looks as it roars up to meet you? The atmosphere, thin as a whisper, stings as it whips into the sides of your capsule, sparking white-hot flames. Then, before you can find your bearings, the floor falls out from under you. The parachute deploys, and you jerk backwards as it grabs ahold of the atmosphere. You keep falling and you're still going too fast when the upper half of the capsule, the part with the parachute, breaks away. There's nothing between you and that butterscotch sky. You realize that it's now or never. If you don't do something, you'll soon be smashed to pieces across the surface. A chunk of fuel tank here, a bit of antenna there, a satellite dish atop a rock.

So you fire your retro-rockets, slow yourself down, and stretch your legs. You land, let yourself sink a little into the dust, and, ever so slowly, you open your eyes.

Mars landings are damn foolish endeavors. Only a lunatic would set out for this Red Planet of their own free will.

Not that I had a choice. The fine folks of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration made all of my travel arrangements. It cost them a pretty penny, but what else could they do? The Soviet Union had already put a spacecraft on Mars, but she failed to send back any data after landing. NASA vowed that Project Viking would be different. I'd take pictures, study the air and the soil, and even search for signs of life. The humans who made me were obsessed with the question of unearthly intelligence. If only they could think beyond the constraints of the organic, then they'd realize that they had never truly been alone!

But I digress.

They were explorers at heart, and they sent me to boldly go where they could not. I had my big sendoff with the television cameras rolling. For the better part of a year I drifted through interplanetary space towards Mars and my purpose. It was then that I realized I was not alone. Poor, frightened Tinselina perched curled up beneath my satellite dish, softly weeping. I did my best to comfort her, reassuring her that once we were back on Earth, the humans would jump at the chance to have the Martian angel for their Christmas tree. I'd be on display in that new Air and Space Museum being built in the capital city. Perhaps she'd want to visit me after Christmas?

"Yes," she said. "I'd like that. You'll make a fascinating exhibit, not to mention a dashing one."

Now, we machines can't exactly blush, but I think I came close just then. Good thing it was pretty dark in that capsule. "And you'll look beautiful up on the tree," I replied.

She laughed. It remains the sweetest sound I've ever heard, warm and musical against the silence of space.

Soon enough, we came to those few moments of terror, hurtling towards our predetermined landing site, a place called Chryse Planitia. The golden plain. It was a nice name for a boring spot. When we touched down, there wasn't much to see, just flat ground and rocks stretching from horizon to horizon beneath the pinkish-brown sky—so different, I hear, from the blue of Earth's. As I took soil samples, as I raised my arm to test the wind like a human being might wave her hand through a gentle stream, I longed for the day when I saw the blue skies of home for myself. I wouldn't be cold forever. Sunlight, so useless on this frigid, barren rock, would spill warm and bright through doors and windows as crowds of people gathered to marvel at me. They'd listen as experts expounded on my great discoveries. Perhaps I'd even give my makers the thing they most desired: proof of life on another planet.

Imagining my place in history kept me going as I outlasted my projected mission duration. Tinselina helped keep my spirits up. We hummed Christmas carols together as I conducted my experiments. The extension of the mission did not concern us at all. I was outperforming NASA's wildest expectations. They'd gotten a lot of science out of me. Any day now, the recovery team would be along to pick us up and bring us back to Earth. They're preparing my museum gallery right now, I thought. Bright lights, shiny floors. Huge projections of the photographs I'd taken. At the center of the room, a place of honor worthy of a pioneer. I'd be pretty visible, so Tinselina would have to be careful when she came to see me. I made up my mind to have a chat with the security cameras when I got there, see if I could buy us a few moments of privacy.

It would be a peaceful life; one I'd damn well earned. And I'd still be useful, educating my human visitors about the wonders of the cosmos, inspiring them to seek out wonders yet undiscovered.

Holy Hell, was I naïve!


	2. Chapter 1 - Mission's End

_**Chapter 1 – Mission's End**_

On the day everything went kaput, Tinselina and I were having one of our bickering sessions.

"The results from the labeled release came back positive," I said, as I had many times before and would no doubt repeat, "but the other three biological experiments returned negative results. I haven't seen any conclusive evidence of organic life on this dirtball."

"What made that radioactive gas, then?" Tinselina retorted from her place beneath my dish.

"False positive, inorganic chemical reaction, I don't know! It's NASA's job to sort all of that out. I just sniff the soil. Besides, you can't make a sweeping statement about life on other planets based on the results of one experiment. Human scientists don't jump to conclusions like that."

"Human scientists also don't talk to Christmas ornaments."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

I felt her sit down, her skirts settling beside my right eye. "It means," she said sweetly, "that you don't have to do things exactly the way they do. You can see and understand things they can't. Why not embrace that? Send the scientists a piece of your mind along with the next batch of data."

"I'm not programmed to do that. Besides, it would scare the hell out of them. 'Hey guys, I'm alive up here, and I'm not the only one.' They'd lose it!"

"Whatever. I still think you have the right to say something." She tapped her foot twice, our agreed-upon signal for "Please let me down from here." I reached up, wrapped my arm around her, and set her on the ground. She stayed in the crook of my arm longer than was strictly necessary, regarding me with loving exasperation. "They've learned so much because of you. You give and give, and you don't care that you've never received the rewards of your hard work."

"I guess that's all of your Christmas spirit rubbing off on me."

Tinselina laughed as she went to sit by my foot. "At least I taught you something," she said. "I suppose the spirit is the important part. It somewhat makes up for your lousy singing."

"Dearest, I'm a space probe, not a Christmas caroler. And 'Jingle Bells' isn't even a real Christmas song."

"It is, too! They played it all the time in the store where I was on sale."

"The lyrics never mention the holiday by name!"

"It's been played during the Christmas season for over a hundred years!"

We continued in this fashion, back and forth, until we wore ourselves out. There was never any malice in our little squabbles. They were a way to pass the time more than anything. I couldn't go running off on adventures without giving Mission Control a heart attack, so I had to occupy myself while I stayed put and waited for my equipment to work its magic.

Finally, having had enough, Tinselina stood up. She looked westward, to the sunset spilling blue light over Chryse Planitia. Rocks and boulders cast their long shadows, and Tinselina's golden hair caught the fading light, reflecting it in streaks of silver. She must've sensed me gazing at her, smiling like a fool, for she turned around and said in a gentle-teasing voice, "I know the view is lovely, but it's almost time for your update."

"Damn it, you're right," I grumbled. I'd almost forgotten. For the last few months I'd been a little slow, a bit groggy. My battery was starting to degrade, and I was feeling every minute of it. I'd received the signal the other day: be ready for a software upgrade. It would improve my battery capacity, and then I would perk back up. I'll admit I have a tendency toward grumpiness when I'm not feeling my best. I have never been one to suffer in silence, as Tinselina knew well by then. The update would make her day-to-day a little more tolerable, too.

Looking back, I can't be sure what she saw in me. She wasn't the type of gal to be swayed by a famous name. I couldn't give her a luxurious lifestyle, and I won't presume she loved me for my looks. But love me she did. She was always by my side with her talk of Christmas and Earth. I rolled my eyes whenever she started chatting, but deep down I was grateful. Without her, I might have lost it sooner.

She didn't deserve what was about to happen. It wasn't my fault, but I'll never stop regretting it.

Tinselina, my dear, I am so sorry.

The blue dusk was beginning to fade. "Tinselina, would you step aside for a moment?"

She nodded and walked off to the left, out of my camera's field of vision. I hated asking her to do that, but Mission Control wouldn't take kindly to any surprises. I focused my vision, blinked, and snapped a photo of that sunset. "You can come back over," I called.

As Tinselina sat beside me again, I sent the photograph back to Earth. Reaching for that connection always reassured me that I wasn't as far from home as I sometimes felt. My sunset, sliced into strips, shot upward into the void between our two worlds, to be reassembled, piece by piece, on a computer screen at the Jet Propulsion Lab, where my team worked. There, it said. I've still got it. All I need is a little boost, so get a move on!

I hoped, as I always did, that this update would be the last. That tomorrow, or the next sol, or even the next week, we'd be on our way back to Earth. Earth, with its museum galleries and Christmas parties. The place I'd never seen beyond the sterilized laboratory where I had been built. Home.

My antenna twitched, drawing me away from my fantasizing. The update was coming. Tinselina looked up, and I smiled back at her. Everything was fine.

Slowly, the new software arrived. It seeped into my systems, stitching my fraying edges together like fine silk thread. I stretched my arm and said, "That's better!" Tinselina sighed in relief.

The update continued its work. It shifted into my antenna-positioning guidelines. I felt the two sets of data bump against one another, jostling for space.

Then, a sharp sensation. Not quite pain, more like a keen awareness of something moving within me. Something rising up and coming down, hard, on something else. The thing on the bottom dissolving, its component atoms scattering in all directions. I heard a whistle like the soft breeze in the Martian dust.

And then I couldn't feel my antenna.

I remained calm. That was the first thing they taught human astronauts, and the first thing they programmed into me. Stay cool under pressure. Panicking didn't help anything.

Now my dish was out of focus. I tried to point it back at Earth, at JPL, at somewhere that would listen, but it wouldn't budge.

It was disconnected.

By then, Tinselina had realized that something was wrong. "Viking, what's happening?" she asked, her voice catching.

"I—I don't kn—now," I sputtered. My sight grew fuzzy, and a pop sounded, as if a lightbulb had died between my eyes. I tried to take another picture, gesturing Tinselina to give me some space. It didn't work. The image faded as soon as it was captured. I gathered some basic data—surface temperature, wind speed—and reached out for that link.

Nothing.

A cold, sinking feeling came over me, and I abandoned protocol. "Viking 1 to JPL. My battery is low, and my antenna is experiencing disruption. What are your orders?"

No response.

"Viking 1 to JPL. This is an SOS call! I think I'm losing contact. Please advise."

Not a word.

"Hey, down there! Dr. Sagan? Dr. Straat? Dr. Levin? Dr. Brackett?" I sobbed out my creators' names. "I'm running out of juice. Now would be a great time to send that recovery crew!"

Silence.

"Hello, is anyone there? Help me, damn you all, help!"

It was no use. The line was dead.

Machines cannot cry. We lack the equipment that produces tears and, as far as our makers know, the emotions that trigger them. But in that moment, I let out a wail that no living soul, organic or otherwise, would mistake for anything other than the pure pain of betrayal. Thank goodness they built me with three sturdy legs, so I didn't crumple to the ground in sorrow when my head started spinning.

Tinselina drummed her fingers on my side, the signal for "Please pick me up." I obliged her, lifting her up to perch beside my eyes.

"Whatever just happened, we can handle it." She gave her brightest smile, and I believed her because I wanted to. Space is hard, like Dr. Brackett always said. Things went screwy all the time. The key to success was preparedness.

I took a moment to compose myself before I spoke. "You are a voice of reason, as always. We'll keep at it with our work. Collect our data. Wait for the recovery ship. It'll be here any day now."

"Yes. Any day now." She tried to sound confident, and I loved her for it.

This had to be my mission's end. I'd lasted over six Earth years on Mars, showing the scientists more wonders than they ever expected. I was tired, I was worn out, and I was fed up. It was time for Tinselina and I to go home. Wasn't it November on Earth? Wasn't Christmas only a month away? If our escort got here tomorrow, we'd spend this holiday in transit. Oh, well. Next year was all ours. We'd make it back with plenty of time to spare.

Any day now. Tinselina was right. I may as well get some rest.

It was getting dark. Far above us, Phobos and Deimos danced among the stars. The distant Earth shone among them, steady and true. Tinselina reclined below my useless dish. "I'm here," she whispered. "You're not alone, Viking. It's going to be okay."

"I know," I replied, but the words rang hollow. "Goodnight, Tinselina. I love you."

Those three words held my whole being.

"I love you, too."

And so, we waited.


	3. Chapter 2 - Some Genius Smart-Alecky Kid

_**Chapter 2 – Some Genius Smart-Alecky Kid**_

_Six and a half months later, on Earth_

Bill Parker stared at the computer screen before him. He examined the columns upon columns of data, which totaled up to a whole heap of nothing, and quipped, "It's dead, Jim."

Jim Milton leaned back in his chair and laughed. His colleagues glared at him from their stations. JPL had failed yet again to re-establish contact with Viking 1, and after six and a half months' worth of attempts, the project heads were ready to pull the plug. It was hardly a joyful moment.

_Damn, what a mission!_ Jim thought. _Six Earth years. Nothing short of miraculous! And I was there from the beginning._

Jim Milton thought highly of himself, and assumed everyone else did as well. He had been a prodigy, a bright-eyed intern for Project Viking during its earliest stages who went on to earn his PhD in aerospace engineering from Caltech before accepting a permanent gig at JPL. He had the ego and habitual smugness of a man who had grown up constantly being told how smart he was, how special, how destined for greatness. His confident bearing spoke of the ease with which doors had opened for him and the earnestness with which opportunities had fallen at his feet.

His success was all his own doing, the result of hard work and personal sacrifice. The fact that his grandfather sat on Caltech's Board of Trustees, and that his father and JPL's director were close friends of many years, had nothing to do with it. Nothing at all.

"It's sort of cruel, you know," said Barbara Brackett, from the row in front of Bill and Jim. "The lander accomplished so much, and we leave the poor guy up there to rot? It's really quite sad."

"Ugh," Jim grunted.

"Not this again," said Bill.

"Viking was a resounding success, Barb. It revolutionized our understanding of the Red Planet. The machine did its intended job, and much more besides, so there's nothing to be sad about," Jim said. "Except, perhaps, your labeled release experiment."

Barb's face flushed. She took a slow, deep breath before speaking. "Our results may be inconclusive," she said, "but that presents even more of an incentive for further exploration."

"That may be so," Jim replied. "I suppose we shall see. Anyway, anthropomorphizing the lander, even in jest, is unbecoming of a scientist." He spoke like a parent scolding a naughty child. "Knock it off, if you know what's good for you."

"Is that a threat, Dr. Milton?"

"Maybe it is, maybe it isn't, Barb."

"Dr. Brackett, please and thank you."

"'Dr. Brackett,'" Jim sneered. "They must've handed you that degree on a silver goddamn platter, for fear of sexism charges. Oh, it's so hard being a woman in a man's world! You know what? I bet you only got this job because you knew someone who pulled a few strings."

"That's rich, coming from you!"

"Guys, that's enough," said Bill, who had witnessed this same argument many times. "No one actually thinks the thing is sentient. She was talking figuratively, or some such. Jim, calm down. Barb, take a break."

Barb asked the scientist on her left to keep an eye on her screen, then headed to the lunchroom. On her way out the door, she shot Jim a lethal look.

"Bring me a coffee, will you? Cream, no sugar!" Jim called after her.

Bill glared at Jim. "That's really not funny. She's your colleague, and she has as much a right to be here as you do. Keep this up and she might report you for all the crap you say. Honestly, you'd deserve it."

"Nothing would ever come of it. Does she know who I am?"

"Yes, and that's the problem."

Jim swore under his breath and turned back to his console. Viking 1 had officially run out of juice. Soon they'd all meet with members of the press to break the news. He hated to admit it, but Barb was right about this moment's bitter-sweetness. He'd given the past twelve years of his life to the mission, to the craft that explored Mars on behalf of its human creators. He felt awed by that fact, not to mention proud.

He pondered his next steps. Perhaps he'd go for a teaching job, or publish a book. Surely the curious public longed to hear the story of the mission, told by the most brilliant and personable member of the team. Maybe it would help him become a great public intellectual, like Dr. Sagan.

Not that he'd share every single detail of his time with Project Viking. Some things were best left unwritten.

* * *

It felt like fate when, as a graduate student at Caltech, Jim read the letter offering him an internship at JPL. "I told you it was a done deal, son," his dad said with a knowing wink that Jim either didn't see or chose to ignore.

His first days on the job were a baptism by fire. Project Viking was, by any measure, an extraordinarily ambitious mission. Each of the experiments aboard the lander had its own team of scientists working like mad to ensure that everything functioned as intended. Jim found himself a colleague of distinguished biologists, engineers, physicists, geologists, and planetary scientists, among others. No one saw a moment of calm, least of all the interns.

Most of the scientists were men. Jim, whose entire life was one big old boys' club, paid the handful of women little mind. If Barb Brackett and the few others chose to enter a man's world, he mused, then they had no right to complain when men resented their intrusion. He thought they should all just toughen up.

As work proceeded, Jim and Barb largely ignored one another. The latter spent her days fine-tuning the labeled release experiment, while the former worked with the engineering team, spending hours in the laboratory where the lander was under construction. It took a small army to get the thing up and running, but nevertheless Jim began to think of Viking 1 as _his_. He had been there when the first pieces were assembled, after all. He was a witness to everything, and felt confident that history would applaud him for it.

One evening, not long before the lander was to be shipped to Florida for its launch, Jim sat at a bar with two fellow interns, Bill Parker and John Kuang. They toasted one another with their beers, and Jim shared an idea he'd been mulling over.

"I want to send up a little, let's call it a token, with the lander. Something to commemorate my contributions to the mission," he explained.

"Do it," John said. "It'll be your own private joke. You'll look back fifty years from now and still get a chuckle or two from it."

"Have you guys lost your minds?" Bill interjected. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "This is a billion-dollar mission we're talking about. If you add anything to that lander—any excess weight or, God forbid, any organic material, you'll compromise the experiments. That's years of scientific work, down the damn drain!"

"Aw, get down off your high horse." Jim retorted. "I just want to leave my mark. It might be reckless, but it's human."

Bill shook his head, "This is absurd, Jim. You need to think of the consequences. What the hell do you want to send up, anyway?"

Jim wasn't sure. Fortunately, a visit to his girlfriend gave him an answer. Liz was busy mixing some drinks when Jim noticed the bag on the coffee table. It was of sturdy dark green paper and emblazoned with the name of the store in gold lettering: _Morrow's Merry Christmas Shoppe_.

"Why'd you go to a Christmas store?" Jim asked. "It's February."

"I wasn't planning on it," Liz said, "but I passed by on my way to the office and happened to glance at the window. I saw the prettiest angel, so I went inside and asked about her. The lady behind the counter said she was a limited-edition ornament, the last one in stock. On sale, too. I couldn't stand to think of her all alone in there, so I bought her."

Jim groaned. Liz had sounded like Barb just then, which made him shudder even as it gave him an idea. He reached into the bag and removed the angel. She looked up at him with cheerful blue eyes and a painted smile, her hands folded neatly at her waist. Two feathered wings peeked out from behind her long blonde hair, and a golden halo crowned her head.

"She's nearly perfect," Jim told a puzzled Liz. "Hear me out…"

He filled her in on his plan. Liz resisted at first, but gave in after Jim promised to buy her an even nicer ornament as a replacement. He brought the angel into the kitchen and dug a pair of scissors out of the junk drawer. The wings and the halo would make secreting the thing in the lander difficult, so off they came. Liz winced. Jim ignored her.

Satisfied with his work, Jim shoved the angel in his backpack and headed for the lab. He changed into the white plastic suit that everyone wore when working on or near the machine. With the angel hidden in the crook of his arm, he strolled down the hallway, bumping right into Barb Brackett.

"Good evening, Jim," she said in a tone that suggested his presence rendered it anything but good. "What brings you here so late?"

"I might ask the same of you," he shot back. "You're not talking to that thing again, are you?"

"That's none of your concern, Jim. Now, you look like you have work to do, so I suggest you get to it."

"Yes, Dr. Brackett," he spat, walking briskly away. Once she was out of earshot, he exhaled in relief. If she caught him doing what he was about to do, not even his father's connections would save him.

He entered the lab, a cool, cavernous space filled with gleaming machinery. Industrial lamps cast their dim after-hours light. Up in the ceiling, the ventilator hummed as it went about its work. With one gloved hand, Jim reached for a piece of heat-resistant fabric on a nearby table. He rolled it up and moved slowly towards the lander, careful to make as little noise as possible.

The machine sat on a platform at the center of the lab. Its satellite dish and legs were tucked close to its body. It looked like a large, sleeping animal.

Jim glanced around the lab to make sure he was alone. Then, he knelt on the floor and unrolled the fabric. He placed the angel at its center, wrapped her up, and tied the ends shut. Once he'd finished, he stood up. Gently, he lifted the dish up a couple of inches and slid the bundle beneath it. She fit like a charm.

With the deed done, Jim hightailed it out of the lab, moving as fast as he could without looking suspicious. He changed into his regular clothes and hopped into his car. As he drove home, his mind wandered back to what Bill had said that night at the bar. Tampering with the lander was risky. Had Jim just ruined the mission? Had he contaminated the machine? He didn't want to admit that Bill's warning made sense.

It was only the second or third introspective moment of his life, and it made him uncomfortable.

Jim never got caught, and the mission was a smashing success. He plugged away, analyzing the lander's data, and smiled at the thought of his memento on the Red Planet, proof of his place in history.

Yes, some things were best left unwritten.

* * *

Barb sat at the lunchroom table, fuming. She gripped her coffee mug, lifted it to her lips, and took a long sip. "When will that little bastard grow the hell up?"

"Hm, I'd guess sometime between the advent of interstellar travel and the death of the sun," joked Bill as he removed his meatloaf from the microwave.

"So, not in my lifetime."

"Sounds about right."

Barb laughed a weary laugh that quickly turned to a snort of disgust as Jim Milton walked into the room. He regarded her and Bill with more disapproval than usual. "Barb, I thought I told you to get me a coffee," he snapped.

"Go to Hell, Jim. I'm not your maid."

"Seriously? You're doing this again?" whined Bill.

"I'm a more senior member of this team than he is, Bill. Jim, you will treat me with respect, or I swear to God, this time I'll report you. I don't give a shit if your daddy's best friend runs this place."

Jim sputtered, his face turning bright red. He moved towards Barb.

Bill stepped between them. "Stop it, right now!" he shouted. "Cool off before you both get canned. Jim, come with me. Enjoy your coffee, Barb, but be back in time for the press briefing."

"Got it," she said, and took another sip.

"I guess I'll get my own coffee, then," Jim pouted. He filled his mug, then shoved the pot into its place.

"What did Mr. Coffee ever do to you?" asked Barb. Jim and Bill ignored her question. They strode out of the room, leaving her alone.

She allowed herself a few minutes to simmer down and finish her coffee before she placed her mug in the sink and went back to Mission Control.

* * *

After Barb left the lunchroom, the appliances came to life. Mr. Coffee rubbed his "back" with his plug. "Milton's throwing another tantrum," he said. "Geez, that's sore. Did anybody ever teach that kid manners?"

"Judging by the way he slams my door shut, no," offered Pana, the microwave.

"No wonder Dr. Brackett can't stand him."

"That poor dear," said Pana in her posh British accent. "She's a senior scientist, and she still gets no respect. If I were her, I'd seek employment elsewhere."

"She'll have to soon enough, now the project is over."

That silenced them both. Working where they did, they knew better than to start planning Viking 1's welcome home party. He was on Mars to stay. Still, he'd gone above and beyond in serving his purpose, and the kitchen-dwellers couldn't help but feel that he deserved a better fate.

Pana sighed. "Poor sod. I can't imagine what it's like, knowing you won't ever come home."

Mr. Coffee raised his plug to his "brow" in a salute. "He's an inspiration to appliances everywhere. Doing his duty, even so far off on an alien world."

"I'll bet he already has fan clubs, Mr. C."

"There's a thought! Well, he's a good role model for the young ones."

"True, true. Still 'tis a shame that he'll never come back."

"A shame indeed."

"Let's have a service for him," Pana suggested, grief seeping into her voice. "What do you say? We could each offer a few words. It'd be a nice way to honor him."

"Good idea," said Mr. Coffee. "I'll round up the others after the humans leave."

"I'll get this kitchen tidied. It simply won't do, in this sorry state."

Pana and Mr. Coffee sat silently, each contemplating what to say at the service. How to find the words? What could capture the triumph and tragedy of Viking's existence? Neither appliance knew, but they were sure as Hell going to try.


	4. Chapter 3 - Any Day Now

**_Chapter 3 – Any Day Now_**

It didn't look like much, our Martian Christmas.

There were no carolers or sleigh rides or gifts wrapped in colorful paper. No one hung stockings or brewed a pot of hot cocoa. There wasn't a Christmas tree in sight on this barren world.

Viking knew it was painful for me, so he improvised. On the day we thought was December 25th (with Viking's link to Earth busted, we could only guess), I climbed atop his satellite dish, stood on my tiptoes, and smiled. I imagined my missing wings unfurling, my absent halo glowing. Viking would let me stay up here as long as I wanted, for all that he joked he was a scientific instrument, damn it, not a Christmas tree. Keeping my balance was tricky, though, so I signaled him to pick me up and set me on the ground.

We passed the day, as we so often did, with good-natured banter. I sang the cheeriest songs I knew, and Viking even joined me on occasion. He wasn't much of a singer, but it's the spirit that counts, isn't it? He hummed "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" as I stood by his foot and gazed up at him.

Viking picked me up again, and I sat beneath his dish. In the blue dusk, the sands of Chryse glowed snowy silver-white. We watched the stars together, weaving our own constellations.

"You looked beautiful up there today," Viking said.

"You couldn't see me!" I replied.

"I don't need to see you to know."

True, it didn't look like much, but it was Christmas, and I was with the machine I loved. Soon we'd be on our way back to Earth, and we'd have many more Christmases together, with all the bells and whistles.

In the meantime, we kept waiting.

* * *

I remember the crinkly tissue paper obscuring the light, the cardboard box enclosing me. A pair of soft hands lifted me slowly upward. "Hmm, no, I can't set you here. This looks too busy," muttered a raspy female voice. "I already have the star on top of the tree, so how about…perfect!" The woman placed me on something sturdy. I heard her walk away.

I stood wherever I was for several hours, listening to the Christmas music emanating from the back of the space. A bell jingled when people opened the door. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Morrow!" the visitors called. A couple of them picked me up, quickly setting me down again when Mrs. Morrow told them my price.

At last Mrs. Morrow yawned and said "Closing time," to no one in particular. I heard her flick a few light switches, lower the window blinds, and lock the door on her way out.

"Alright folks, the coast is clear," boomed a jolly male voice.

I opened my eyes.

It seemed I hadn't come here alone. Two other angels stood beside me. One wore a green gown and had her auburn hair in a fancy updo. The other had short brown hair and a white dress. They both smiled at me.

The three of us gaped at our surroundings. The store wasn't large, but it was packed to the rafters with every kind of decoration imaginable. There were delicate glass balls in bright colors, painted wooden ornaments with silk ribbons for hanging, green garlands, tinsel, nutcrackers, and a small army of Santa Clauses. A full Nativity scene spread out on a table near the front of the store. Strands of twinkling lights, the only ones Mrs. Morrow had left on, lined the window.

Three figures stood in front of the window, perched on beribboned boxes. One of the three, a light-up snowman in a waistcoat and top hat, jumped down and shuffled toward us. He looped his cord through a door handle, hauling himself up on our cabinet. "Welcome, ladies," he said in that powerful voice, "to Morrow's Merry Christmas Shoppe. My name's Burl, and they—" he gestured to the Santa and Mrs. Claus walking over from the window "—are Mickey and Shirley, respectively."

"Pleasure to meet you," said Shirley.

"Charmed," added Mickey.

"And what might we call the three of you?" Burl asked.

My sister-angels and I shrugged. None of us had given names any thought, new to sentience as we were.

"Look!" Shirley called from the floor. Mickey had opened the doors of the antique cabinet we stood upon and removed three boxes. _Our_ boxes! "You in the green, it says here that your name is Holly."

"I like the sound of that," Holly said with a confident smirk.

"And you, wearing white," Shirley continued, "you're Merry."

Merry giggled and twirled her skirts in a manner befitting her name.

"Last but not least, Goldilocks up there? Your name is Tinselina."

"Tinselina," I tried it out. "I'll take it."

"All three of you are limited edition ornaments, according to your packaging," Mickey interjected. "It's an honor to have such exalted company."

"Sure is," said Burl. "Now, if you'll indulge me, I'll give y'all the grand tour."

Holly, Merry, and I climbed down from the table and followed Burl. Mickey and Shirley tagged along, holding hands. One by one we were introduced to the store's residents. We met Bing, the record player whose music I had heard earlier. Eartha, a small lamp with a green glass shade, sat next to Judy, the cash register. Three other Santa Clauses introduced themselves as Edmund, Vincent, and Danny. There were so many new names and kind faces that I couldn't keep track of them all. Over the next few nights, I found myself sheepishly asking folks to remind me of their names.

I loved that store. Mrs. Morrow kept it bright, cheery, and tidy, greeting us with an exuberant "Good morning, loves!" every morning. The customers were mostly nice, aside from the occasional cheapskate who made a fuss about us being too expensive. You can't just give art away, I felt like shouting at them, but I kept my silence, as we all must.

Mrs. Morrow had an advent calendar on the shelf near Judy's spot. I watched her open one of its doors each day, counting down to Christmas. On the tenth day, a woman and a little girl came into the store.

"She's so pretty, Mommy!" said the girl.

"She is," agreed the mother, and just like that, Holly was on her way to her new home.

On the eighteenth, a young man picked up Merry, proclaimed "My wife will love you!" and bought her.

Christmas came and went. I stood by myself, despondent. Why didn't anyone want me? Was I not pretty enough? I agonized over these questions, holding back sobs.

Someone put a hand on my shoulder.

"Don't worry, dear," Shirley said. "There's always next Christmas. Why, Mickey and I have been here four years and counting, and Burl even longer. We can't decide who chooses us or when, but we can put our best feet forward while we wait."

"Thank you," I said tearfully.

Shirley hugged me and whispered, "There, there. You'll find a home. It takes time, that's all."

New Year's passed, then Valentine's Day. Fewer customers came into the store. Mrs. Morrow moved me to the window with Mickey, Shirley, and Burl. Perhaps someone might see me from the street and decide to buy me! I started to imagine my future home. Surely my Master or Mistress would decorate a beautiful tree. They would if they had me, at any rate. That thought kept me smiling as the days grew longer and warmer.

Shirley looked out for me back then. She was like a mother, never without a kind word or a smile. I watched her and Mickey together, saw how they looked at one another with nothing but love, how she leaned her head on his shoulder, how he clasped her hand. I hoped that, wherever I ended up, I found someone to love so deeply.

Then, one breezy February day, not long after Mrs. Morrow had opened up the store, the bell sounded above the door.

"Good morning, ma'am," said a young woman's voice. "How much for that angel in the window?"

* * *

"I have a good feeling about this one," Viking said over a pile of soil, waiting for his equipment to get to work. He smiled without realizing it, as he so often did. He was so cute when he got excited.

"Maybe this one will be a true positive for life," I teased.

"Here we go again…"

We carried on with our favorite argument. It was a welcome distraction. We bickered back and forth until Viking paused mid-sentence. His eyes widened, and he muttered to himself, "Come on, come on, almost there. I think it's a—," and then he stopped.

"Nothing?" I asked.

"Nothing," he grumbled, swiping the pile of dirt away with his "hand." "For the millionth time, _nothing_."

I signaled him to pick me up. Once seated beside his eyes, I said, "I know it's hard, Viking, but we'll get through this. Think of all the great work you've already done, of what's waiting for us back home. Try to take it easy. They'll be here any day now."

"Any day now," he repeated. He was trying to be cheerful for my sake, but I heard the fear and doubt in his voice. It echoed my own.

I tried my best, I really did. We all need someone to love and comfort us in our darkest hours. Viking had done the same for me, years ago, when we first found ourselves together in the vast space between worlds.

* * *

"She's nearly perfect," the man said.

Nearly? Who did this guy think he was?

"Perfect for what, Jim?" asked the Mistress. She seemed kind, soft-spoken. I wondered what exactly she saw in this oaf, and hoped he wasn't my new Master.

"Hear me out, Liz," he began. His plan made no sense. A mission to Mars? Looking for a memento? I thought Vikings were big, hairy people with swords. I listened, confused, as the Mistress and the boorish man argued.

The Mistress sighed. "Fine, Jim. Have it your way."

"Do you have a pair of scissors?"

"They're in the kitchen. Top drawer on the right."

Jim—I couldn't call him Master then, and won't now—carried me into the kitchen. He riffled through the drawer and found the scissors. "This will get in the way," he said, poking at my halo. "And these wings, too. Sort of tacky, anyway. You really think she was worth the money, Liz?"

Well, I never! Just because he wouldn't know craftsmanship if it slapped him in the face, doesn't give him the right to—

_Snip!_

A clattering of metal on linoleum.

_Snip snip snip snip snip snip snip!_

The crunch of metal slicing through fabric, feathers, and wire.

_Crack!_

Jim twisted my wings to the left, snapping the last straggling wire. Light exploded behind my closed eyes. I wanted to scream, to curse him for doing this to me, but that was impossible. We had to follow the rules, even at the point of our destruction.

"That's better," he said.

He carried me back into the other room. Everything spun around me. I was starting to fade out. "I'm going…lab…do this now…" I heard him say through my haze of pain and shock. He tossed me into a dark, cramped bag. My mind raced. What lab, what was happening?

Jim zipped the bag shut. Darkness engulfed me, and I felt nothing.

* * *

The next thing I remember, I was weightless. I came to in some sort of cocoon, dark, tight, but with enough wiggle room to unfold my arms and claw at the sides. There was a loose knot at the top. I untied it, then frantically pushed my way out of what I now saw was a fabric bundle. I emerged into a peculiar room. The low ceiling looked like a big dish, with a thin piece of folded metal pointing to the floor. There wasn't enough room to stand, so I had to crouch instead.

"Hello?"

I screamed. A human had caught me, and I was in deep trouble. I'd never see the top of a tree now! I started to cry.

"Hey, are you alright? There's nothing to be afraid of."

If the voice was addressing me directly, then there was no way it belonged to a human. "Where am I?"

"You're aboard a Titan 3E rocket, bound for the Red Planet."

I gasped. Jim really had sent me to Mars. "Who are you?" I asked, fighting to keep my voice confident.

"They call me Viking 1. And you are?"

"Tinselina."

"I didn't realize that I'd have company on my mission. Are you part of my payload?"

"Your what?"

"My scientific instruments. What are you here to look for?"

"Nothing. I was sent here as a—what was the word he used? —memento."

"Who's 'he?'"

"Jim? I think he helped build you. He wasn't very nice."

"Milton," said Viking. "Yeah, he's a piece of work. Dr. Brackett never liked him. She was a senior scientist, and he still treated her like garbage."

"Is Dr. Brackett your Mistress?"

"I'm not sure I follow."

"A Mistress or Master," I explained, "is the person you work for, and who takes care of you. They might be the person who made you, but not always."

"Well, a bunch of scientists worked on me. Dr. Brackett helped design my labeled release experiment. She was always around while I was being prepped for launch, and she was always kind. She actually talked to me! Not when other people were present, of course, and I never talked back. Still, it was nice. So yes, I suppose she is my Mistress."

"She sounds wonderful."

"She is. I hope I make her proud."

"I'm sure you will. What sorts of things are you going to do on Mars?"

He told me all about his mission, the experiments, the potential discoveries. The folks at NASA were counting on him to show them Mars like they'd never seen it before. His excitement was so infectious that I decided it wasn't so bad being along for the ride. We had a round trip ticket, after all.

"And when we get back, I'll go on display in the Air and Space Museum. I'll have my own gallery and everything!" He said this with such glee that I couldn't help but smile. "What about you?"

"Well, I'm a limited-edition ornament. I'm supposed to go on top of a Christmas tree." Yet here I was, in a capsule barreling through space. I wept softly.

"You'll get there. We're going on an adventure first, that's all," he said in that deep voice, as warm and inviting as a roaring fire on Christmas Eve. "Think about it: everybody will jump at the chance to have the Martian angel for their tree. It's a good selling point, you have to admit."

It happened fast, now that I think about it. Viking was smart, ambitious, enthusiastic. Easy to like. He'd been kind to me when I needed kindness. He couldn't carry a tune if he had a bucket, but he sang carols with me anyway, for the sheer joy of it. So, when he asked me, stumbling over his words in a nervous rush to get the question out in the open, if I'd want to visit him in his museum sometime, I replied:

"I'd like that. You'll make a fascinating exhibit, not to mention a dashing one."

I swear I _heard_ his smile when he responded, "And you'll look beautiful up on the tree." He knew how to charm a lady, that's for sure.

I laughed as new love kindled within me. Neither of us could see the other's face in the capsule's pitch-darkness, but he had decided I was beautiful, and I had judged the same of him.

* * *

Sol after sol, month after month, season after season, we waited. Viking sent signals to Earth, or tried to send them. He poked and prodded at his old connection, reaching for those blessed waves, feverishly slinging our frantic SOS call into space. Every time, he felt nothing. No NASA, no humans, no home. His dish sagged, almost touching his eyes. Watching his optimism slip away broke my heart.

We repeated our Christmas ritual monthly, or what we figured was monthly. I sang, and practiced for the day when I'd stand atop a real tree. We measured the passage of time in Christmases, our hope of rescue diminishing with each rendition of "Silver and Gold."

Viking talked to himself. He'd been in the habit as long as I had known him. Whenever he was completely absorbed in his work, he mumbled numbers and calculations, temperatures and wind speeds, soil compositions and camera angles. He questioned, cursed, and gasped in delight. It was adorable, actually. When I told him so, he was positively flustered! "It helps me think," he said.

On the fourth Christmas after the "real" one, he lost himself in data, rambling about the labeled release experiment. Chemical signature this and false positive that. I'm no scientist, so I won't pretend to understand the stuff.

"What did Dr. Brackett make of it all?" he asked the rocks.

"What did she conclude?" he shouted at the sky.

"Tinselina," he called. "There's something in there, right?" he pointed at the rusty soil. "Tell me there's something in there."

"I always told you so," I joked, hoping our running debate would snap him out of whatever this was.

"I knew it! I found something. Dr. Brackett must be so proud of me." Viking's voice cracked. "Where is she? Where are they?"

"I-I think they're on their way."

"Do you?" His words were sharp and icy.

"Viking, please—"

"They aren't coming."

I stared at him. Suddenly the soil felt coarser beneath my feet, the air cooler and drier against my porcelain face. "That can't be right," I protested. "Your team wouldn't leave you here, after all you did for them!"

"They're not coming." Viking gazed down at me, his eyes brimming with the sadness of the hopelessly lost and utterly hopeless. "We've been cut loose. I am so, so sorry."

And then he started sobbing, big Mars-shaking sobs that made me shiver. This isn't happening, I thought. We aren't abandoned. They are running a little late, that's all. I desperately tried to convince myself that Viking was wrong, that someone or something would come along and rescue us.

It didn't work.

I turned away from Viking, curled my hands into fists, and screamed.

* * *

"Come on, come on, get cooking, you!" Viking huffed.

I sat up, roused from my afternoon nap beneath his dish. "Did you say something?"

"Just talking to myself, dear," he answered sheepishly. "The experiment is almost finished."

This was it; the day Viking had been waiting for. The labeled release would hopefully answer one of the big questions that had driven his creators to send him here in the first place: Was there life on Mars?

I tapped my foot twice, and Viking set me on the ground. We waited in silence for the experiment to run its course. He closed his eyes, concentrating his full attention on the data. As the results composed themselves, he started smiling.

"It's a positive," he said, opening his eyes. Then he shouted, "Positive!" He beamed like a kid on Christmas morning beholding his pile of gifts.

"We're not alone!"

"Well, it's too soon to make that call," Viking said, the facts of the matter adding to his delight rather than dampening it, "Dr. Brackett and her colleagues will look at the data and draw their conclusions. But Hell, organic signatures! Something's brewing down there!"

I laughed, nearly falling over as I shook with excitement. Viking reached out his arm to steady me, then pulled me into an embrace. With our size difference, it was a little awkward, but that didn't bother us. I perched on his arm, leaned upward, and kissed him on the cheek. "I'm so proud of you," I whispered.

We stayed like that for a while, enjoying one another's company. When I hopped down to sit beside Viking's right foot, he gently draped his arm around me, holding me close. "I love you," he said, "and I'm glad you're here with me."

I thought of Mickey and Shirley and the love that kept them going year after year. I'd hoped to find one like it, and now I had. So what if Viking and I made an odd couple?

"I love you, too, and I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

Sunlight, bright but cold, spilled over us. I curled into a ball in front of Viking and pulled at my hair. "This can't be happening," I said over and over again.

Viking said nothing. His expression shifted between shock and anger before settling on some unnerving combination of the two.

I stood up. Red dust clung to my hair and dress. I walked over to Viking, signaling to be picked up again. I had to do it a second time before he assisted me. "What will we do now?" I asked, leaning against the base of his dish.

He had no answer. We sat there for ages until he broke the silence with, "You don't deserve this."

"Neither do you," I said, "but no matter what happens, we have each other."

"Can you ever forgive me?"

"This isn't your fault."

He sighed, and I knew it would take a long time for him to even begin to believe that.

This isn't the eternity I imagined, I thought as our shadows stretched longer and longer across the red-gold Chryse afternoon. As the sun began to set, anger simmered within me. How could they do this to him, to us. I thought of Viking's beloved Dr. Brackett. How could _she_?


	5. Chapter 4 - In Memoriam

_**Chapter Four - In**_ **_Memoriam_**

The appliances congregated in the laboratory's small kitchen. It's a good turnout, Pana thought. A group of lamps huddled together on the circular table that took up most of the room. Pana saw her friend Patricia near the center, chatting with Lowell, the Director's desk lamp. The latter had his cord wrapped around a book. On the opposite end of the counter, Jack, the toaster oven, drummed his plug against the linoleum, looking downcast. Even the scientists' calculators, the cliquey little number-crunchers, had shown up. They were on and under one of the chairs, talking amongst themselves.

Schiaparelli—Skip for short—sat under the table, stretching his long neck outward to look up at the counter. The vacuum rolled his eyes and said, "Hey beans-for-brains, isn't it about time we got this show on the road?"

Mr. Coffee huffed. "This is a solemn occasion, Skip. Show a little decorum for once."

"Solemn or not, we only have an hour before the security guard takes his coffee break."

"He's right, Mr. C." Pana said.

"Very well," grumbled Mr. Coffee. He tapped his plug against his empty glass carafe, calling the gathering to order. "Thank you for coming, everyone. I only wish we were assembled for happier reasons. Without further ado, let's start the service." He gestured to Pana.

"We are gathered here tonight," the microwave began, "to celebrate the life and work of Viking 1. While it's true that none of us ever met him, we were all enthralled by the photographs and data he sent back to Earth. We all marveled at his discoveries. We shared our Masters' and Mistresses' awe at the wonders Viking revealed. Mr. Coffee and I thought it would be nice for us to come together and say a few words in memory of our far-away friend. I'll start."

Pana took a deep breath not because she needed to, but because she'd observed humans doing so when they wanted to calm their nerves. "Viking was given a herculean task: travel to an alien world, acting as humanity's proxy, and learn all there was to learn. He did this nobly, and thus opened our eyes to another corner of the universe. I am sorry that he must remain up there, never knowing how much he truly meant to folks down here."

There were a few murmurs of agreement. Mr. Coffee shuffled forward. "Everyone here at JPL dedicated years—and some, over a decade—of their lives to Viking. He paid back their hard work many times over. His life serves as an example to appliances large and small of what can be accomplished when you dedicate yourself to your purpose. Let us all honor his memory by doing our duties to the best of our ability."

Mr. Coffee's speech was met with a cacophony of plugs rapping against the table- and countertop. "Nicely done," Pana whispered as he moved back to his spot. "Now," she said to the crowd, "who would like to go next?"

Patricia raised her plug. "My Master worked on the imaging team. He was one of the first people to see the photographs Viking took on Mars. I remember that day, in July of '76, when Viking landed. They sent him a command to take a picture of the ground, to prove he'd gotten there in one piece, you know? It came up on the screen in strips. Every set of eyes in Mission Control was glued to that screen. When the last strip appeared, my Master gasped. And you know what? It was just a skinny black-and-white photo of Viking's foot and some rocks, but it was the first clear photo taken on Mars, and it made my Master cry tears of joy. I'd be lying if I said I didn't get emotional myself."

"How lovely. Thank you, Patricia," Pana said. "Who else?"

One of the calculators jumped on the table and said, "Viking's data was the most exquisite any of us have ever seen, and there was so much of it! It was truly an honor to work with such magnificent numbers." She hopped back onto the chair, where her companions gathered around her and immediately started discussing some calculation or another.

"Please, let's keep going," Mr. Coffee said sternly. The calculators stopped talking. "Who would like to speak next?"

"I will," came the soft, grief-laden voice from the other end of the L-shaped counter. The crowd looked toward Jack. "Viking's experiments blew my mind when I first heard about them. Looking for life on another planet? You need to have some serious guts to even think about that! And then they got that result from the whoosy-whatsit experiment…"

"Labeled release," Mr. Coffee corrected.

"Yeah, that one. They were all so excited, then came all those arguments 'bout what it really meant. Pretty cool, if you ask me. I'm with you, Pana," Jack said, his voice cracking. "It isn't right that he's stuck on Mars with no way home. It's cold up there. He must be so lonely and scared. _It isn't right_."

He turned away and wept. Patricia moved to comfort him, wrapping her cord around him and repeating "There, there."

After Jack had taken a moment to compose himself, Skip grumbled from beneath the table, "I'd like to say something."

"Go ahead," said Pana.

"I never had as much interaction with the scientists as some of you," Skip said, "but Viking's impact went beyond them. One day, the custodian and the security guard had a chat during their smoke break. I was leaning against the wall beside them. 'My daughter watches the news every night,' the custodian said. 'to see the latest findings from the mission. She's obsessed with the stuff. She says she wants to be a scientist and study Mars when she grows up. Isn't that something?'

"'Sure is,' answered the guard. 'Julia's a bright kid, Mr. Thompson. I wouldn't be surprised if she's one of the first people _on_ Mars.'

"'I'll tell her you said that,' the proud dad replied. Point is, what Viking did matters. He didn't just return data. He inspired folks to think big, to wonder what they're capable of, and that counts for something."

"Indeed, it does. That was beautiful, Skip. Thank you," Mr. Coffee said. He and the vacuum were never the best of friends, but even he had to admit that Skip's reminiscence captured the spirit of Viking's mission in a particularly touching way. "Unfortunately, we're running short on time. Would anyone like to offer some closing remarks?"

"I'd like to give a reading, if you don't mind," Lowell said. The lamps in front of him moved aside, leaving him room to open his book. He turned to a page showing an artist's rendering of Viking's descent to the Martian surface and began reading. _"The Viking lander extends human capabilities to other and alien landscapes. By some standards, it is about as smart as a grasshopper; by others, only as intelligent as a bacterium…"_ Some of the appliances looked offended at these comparisons, but Lowell kept reading, and soon they were all enchanted by the account of Viking's experiments, related in the lamp's soothing baritone.

_"What then? What shall we do with Mars?"_ he concluded, closing the book.

A few of the other lamps oohed and aahed. Pana thanked Lowell, then addressed the group. "Once again, thank you for coming to our little service. It touches my batteries to see how dearly Viking is loved by everyone here. He will never be forgotten by any appliance or human. Good night, everyone."

With that, the appliances headed back to their places. Lowell lingered to answer Mr. Coffee's question about the reading. Patricia checked on Jack one more time. Once she'd made sure that he was okay, she hopped over to Pana. "That was a wonderful service. Thank you for organizing it."

"I'm glad you could make it."

"So am I. My Master just accepted a new job in Houston, so I won't be around here much longer. I'll miss you." The two friends embraced.

"Your Master won't be the last to leave JPL, I suspect." In fact, Pana knew he wouldn't. Dear Dr. Brackett, for one, had mentioned an interview for a professorship on the East Coast. Pana wondered if anything would come of it.

"I'm glad I got to witness all of this," said Patricia. "The mission, I mean. Sure, everyone's going their separate ways now, but for a few years, we were all a part of history. Together. I'll always remember that."

"As will I." Now it was Pana's turn to get weepy. Patricia hugged her friend again. They sat together for a few minutes, letting themselves grieve.

Patricia glanced at the wall clock. "I'd best be on my way. Good night, Pana."

Mr. Coffee, Pana, and Jack settled into their places on the counter. Patricia and Lowell shut the door on their way out. As Pana drifted off to sleep, she imagined windswept red hills and blue sunsets ringing with the sound of lonely sighs.

* * *

**Author's Note: Lowell reads from Carl Sagan's 1980 book, ****_Cosmos_****. The quotation copied here can be found in Chapter 5: "Blues for a Red Planet."**


	6. Chapter 5 - The Fan Club

_**Chapter 5 – The Fan Club**_

"Unbelievable!" Barb exclaimed. "You'd think people would know better by now. I didn't hear that boneheaded reporter ask Jim why he isn't married."

Thomas Bennett rolled his eyes. "Some folks never learn," he said.

"Some folks are just assholes, Thomas."

"That's true."

Yesterday's press conference had been aggravating, but mercifully short. Barb ignored the sexist question and launched into a summary of the labeled release experiment's disputed results. No, she told the press for what felt like the millionth time, there was no conclusive proof of life on Mars. Yes, she assured them, she was thrilled to have been a part of history (if she never heard that line again, it would be too soon). She got out of there the minute the cameras switched off.

They were in Thomas's office at JPL. It wouldn't be his for much longer. He was leaving for Houston in three weeks, and he had already started packing. Boxes of books sat neatly stacked next to empty shelves. Pens, paperclips, and other office supplies filled a plastic container at one end of the desk. A framed copy of the first photo taken on Mars—of the Viking lander's foot against the rocky soil—sat propped against the wall.

Barb leaned forward in her chair, resting her folded hands on her friend's desk. "Thanks for letting me blow off some steam. Now I won't kill Milton when I go and get my coffee."

"Anytime. You can always drop me a line in Houston, if you need to talk."

"Thanks." She smiled at him. "I'll miss our heart-to-hearts. I won't miss all your junk, though. Hopefully the next person to use this office is more organized."

Thomas laughed. "I'll have you know I'm trying to downsize. If any of this 'junk' catches your eye, it's yours."

They chatted some more while Barb looked through the boxes of books and personal effects. She picked up a small lamp with a greenish-white metal shade.

"My lucky lamp," Thomas said. "That was on my desk when we got the first pictures from Viking."

Barb moved to put the lamp away. "I won't take something sentimental—"

"Please, I insist. I know you'll take good care of it."

* * *

It was 10:30 p.m., and Patricia's new Mistress had retired for the evening. The desk lamp opened her eyes and took in her new home.

The one-story house was not very large, which made sense, since the Mistress lived alone. Patricia found herself on a small table beside a floral-patterned sofa. A television sat within a wooden cabinet on the other side of a coffee table. It switched on, revealing the machine's avatar of choice: a heavyset, bespectacled man in a blue blazer.

"What have we here?" the man in the TV asked, his tone implying that he wouldn't like whatever answer Patricia gave.

"I'm Patricia," the lamp replied, waving her plug. "I used to belong to one of the Mistress's colleagues. He's switching jobs, so he gave me away." She felt a pang of sadness at the thought of her old Master, but he'd said that the Mistress would take good care of her, so she'd made up her mind to keep doing what she had always done: shining bright light for bright minds to work by.

"Ah, you come from the world of wonders," the TV said sarcastically. "I'm sure the welcoming committee has loads of questions for you."

"We sure do!" said a velvety female voice. A radio and a lamp emerged from behind the sofa and leaped onto the coffee table. "The name's Zenith," said the radio, hopping back and forth on her stubby feet. She was made of turquoise Bakelite that reflected the TV's glow. With the dial and clock that took up most of her "face," she looked like a technicolor owl. "Welcome to our home. I hope Gene didn't give you a hard time." She pointed at the TV.

The other lamp, a grey gooseneck with a metal shade, set down the paperback he carried and offered his plug. Patricia jumped over to the coffee table and shook it. "Call me Bradbury," he said. He was shorter than Patricia, and his inquisitive green eyes beamed up at her.

"Any relation?" Patricia joked, pointing to the book.

"Oh no, none at all! I merely named myself after Mr. Bradbury. He is my favorite author. Did you know that the Mistress got to meet him?"

Patricia recalled that the human Bradbury had been invited by NASA to watch Viking's landing at JPL. Her former Master was every bit as thrilled as her new housemate. "Yes. I remember when he visited the lab. It was quite exciting!"

Zenith giggled. "I think you'll fit right in here. Braddy, be a dear and grab the magazines."

Bradbury did as he was told, producing a stack of popular periodicals and scientific journals. He reached for the one on the top, a copy of _National Geographic_ with the headline _Mars—As Viking Sees It_. Zenith flipped through the stack and removed her favorite. She beckoned to Patricia, "Get a load of this." She opened the magazine—_The Journal of Planetary Science_, August 1976 edition—to a foldout section. Unfolded, the page showed a detailed diagram of Viking, his scientific instruments labeled with a corresponding number in the legend.

Zenith had no mouth, speaking instead through the grille between her clock and dial. Even so, her suggestive expression was unmistakable. "Oh my," Patricia mumbled. This readership was not, she thought, what the scientists had in mind when they published the journal.

Bradbury looked scandalized. "Aren't you dating Frigidaire?" he asked Zenith.

"We agreed to see other machines," the radio replied, not looking up from the journal.

The gooseneck turned to Patricia. "She has a type," he offered apologetically.

"Hey, a girl can dream!" Zenith retorted.

Gene went to static in the background, then switched back to his avatar. "Ugh. Get a shelf! Nobody wants to witness your amorous delusions."

Zenith flicked her plug at Gene. The TV huffed, "Well, if you're going to act like _that_," and turned himself off.

Bradbury picked up his book. "Don't listen to that pretentious static-spitter," he said. "He doesn't get it. He's never appreciated the space program like Zenith and I do."

Patricia looked over at Zenith, still transfixed by the diagram, and shrugged. Perhaps "appreciation" was putting it mildly.

"Have you read this?" Bradbury asked, brandishing his copy of _The Martian Chronicles_. Its whimsical cover illustration bore little resemblance to the photos Viking had sent back from Mars.

"Only bits and pieces, I'm afraid," Patricia replied. "I didn't have much downtime at JPL. Perhaps I could borrow your copy."

"Of course!"

"I've read Sagan. Heard him speak a few times, too," Patricia said with a hint of pride.

Bradbury gasped. "You must tell me all about it! What is he like in person? Are the other scientists nice? What kind of equipment do they use?" He hurled question after question at Patricia. She patiently answered each one, delighted by the smaller lamp's curiosity.

Zenith soon joined them and asked a few questions of her own. Had Patricia met Viking before his launch? Sadly, no. What did she think of the labeled release experiment's results? She wasn't sure. What was the deal with that Milton guy the Mistress kept complaining about? He was, in fact, a complete bastard who went out of his way to make the Mistress's life difficult.

"Do you think they'll send humans to Mars next?" Zenith asked.

Gene switched back on. "If the Soviet Union heads in that direction, NASA will get on it. We can't have America coming in second place, can we?" He sounded less than patriotic.

"Why is this always about politics for you?" Bradbury protested.

"Because it's all about politics for them," Gene sneered. "Why do you think President Kennedy vowed to put a man on the moon before the end of the '60s? Why do you think they did it? They didn't want the Russians to beat them! It's no different with Mars."

"That's not what the Mistress thinks. She joined the project because she wanted to search for life beyond Earth. She hoped that life on another world might teach us something about life on our own."

"What press release did you steal that from?"

"Knock it off, already," Zenith interjected. "The Mistress doesn't play politics, Gene. She's a woman of science. In it for pure knowledge, right, Braddy?" She turned to Patricia. "You should know better than any of us."

"It's not quite as simple as that," Patricia said, choosing her words carefully. "There were plenty of big egos involved. I remember all sorts of squabbles over whose experiments should go up with Viking and who was the most responsible for the mission's success. It's part of human nature, I'm afraid."

"You see?" Gene said, a smug smile on his avatar's face.

"But in the end," Patricia continued, "they all worked together, regardless of their different interests. They had a common goal, and they achieved it—in spectacular fashion, I might add. Humans can do so much good when they put their minds to it."

Bradbury nodded in agreement. "And that's why we look up to Viking, even if some appliances-" he waved his plug at Gene "-don't see why what he did matters."

"I'm glad we finally have a housemate who sees things our way," Zenith said. "A well-connected housemate, too! Maybe you can get in touch with your old buddies at the lab and make some arrangements once Viking comes home." She spun her dial, her version of a wink.

"What do you mean?" Patricia asked.

"You know, once he's back on Earth, he'll need some time to decompress. I figure he'll want a little company after spending so much time alone. Who knows? One thing may lead to another, and—"

"Really, Zenith?" Bradbury rolled his eyes. "What she means to say is that we would both love to meet Viking, if that's possible. We've, ahem, admired him from afar for so long. You must know someone at JPL who'd help us sneak in one night." He said this with an impish grin, like it was the most rebellious thing he'd ever thought of doing.

Patricia was confused. Surely her new friends had seen the press conference on TV last night, or Bradbury had read about it in the newspaper. Viking's mission was complete, and he was not coming back. It had been planned that way from the beginning.

"I can't wait to tell him how much he's inspired me," the gooseneck said, "and how proud the Mistress is of him!"

Oh, dear.

Patricia turned away from Bradbury and Zenith. She needed a moment to compose herself. This wasn't good. How could these bright appliances have misunderstood Viking's situation?

She sighed. There was no easy way to do this. Better to simply yank the plug out, so to speak.

"Viking isn't coming back," Patricia said as gently as she could. "That was never part of the plan. He completed his mission, and will remain on Mars until such time as humans travel there themselves and decide what to do with him. I'm sorry you had to find out like this."

Poor Bradbury looked baffled. "That can't be. The Mistress must have a plan to bring him home. She wouldn't abandon him."

Gene's laugh was grim and staticky. "Is now a bad time to say 'I told you so?'"

Patricia whipped around to face him. "Yes it is, Gene, so I'd appreciate it if you'd shut the hell up."

The bespectacled man's eyes widened. "I tried to tell these softhearted idiots years ago that the mission was a one-way trip. The Mistress knew this, and signed off on it. What does she care? As far as she knows, Viking is a lifeless hulk."

"How dare you?" Zenith hissed. "I've known the Mistress since she was a teenager. She's taken care of me for thirty years, and I still work like a dream! Dr. Brackett loves all of us. Even you, hard as that is to believe. Don't you remember when she had your cracked screen repaired?"

"So that I'd continue being useful to her. Nothing more, nothing less. You're a broadcaster, Zenith. You hear the same stories I hear. Greed, politics, war. Pure selfishness the great motivator."

Zenith's dial spun rapidly. She shot Gene her best approximation of a glare. "Dr. Brackett isn't like the other humans. She's compassionate and smart, and we're practically her family. She'll look out for Viking, and you can go to hell for saying otherwise!"

"Get over yourself. We're all disposable to her."

"Don't talk like that!" Bradbury bellowed. Patricia was surprised that a little lamp like him could make so much noise. "The Mistress cares for Viking. She won't leave him up there. Right?" He gave Patricia a pleading look.

Patricia draped her cord around Bradbury as Gene and Zenith's argument gained volume. The gooseneck leaned his shade under her own and began to cry.

Her old friend Jack's words came back to her: _It isn't right_. No, it isn't, she thought. But what could any of them do?

* * *

Barb woke to the sounds of a shouting match in her living room. She opened her eyes and saw dim light coming in from the hallway. Had she left the television on? That must be what it is, she thought. It could wait until the morning. She hadn't had a good night's sleep in months.

"Dr. Brackett would never do that!" shrieked a woman's voice.

"Are you kidding? Humans do whatever they want! It's not like we can tell them off." That sounded like a gruff older man. What the hell was going on?

Another voice, perhaps a teenage boy's, sobbed, "So he'll just rot up there? How horrible! Oh poor, poor Viking…" He trailed off, and was shushed by another woman with a softer voice.

"There, there," said the gentle woman, "it's okay to grieve for him. I still do."

Damn it. Now Barb was wide awake. Strangers were in her home, but what did they want? And what did the Viking mission have to do with it?

Slowly, quietly, Barb pushed back the quilt on her bed. She got up, grabbed her glasses from the nightstand, and put them on. She kneeled on the carpet and reached under her bed. Her fingers curled around a wooden baseball bat.

Barb stood up, bat in swinging position, and moved toward the hallway. As she crept closer to the living room, the voices grew louder. She peered around the doorway. There was nobody there, as far as she could tell. Yet the voices persisted.

"We'll launch our own mission!" exclaimed the teenage boy, sounding a bit unhinged. "If the humans won't go back for him, we will!"

"Don't be absurd," snorted the older man.

"Shove it up your tubes!" shouted the first woman.

"Please, for the love of Tesla, stop!" said the soft-voiced woman. "You'll wake the Mistress."

The Mistress, Barb mused. Do they mean me?

"I don't care!" the other woman proclaimed.

Barb stepped into the living room. The invaders continued yelling over one another. She tiptoed to the sofa, raised the bat as if to strike, and stopped cold.

There was a man in the TV. He didn't look like any news anchor Barb had ever seen, and he was staring right at her, mouth agape.

Her blue Zenith radio, the one she'd had since the early fifties, stood on the coffee table, looking furious. Why she knew the radio, which didn't even have a proper face, was angry, she had no idea. Next to the radio were two lamps, the gooseneck from her study and Thomas's "lucky lamp" that she'd brought home that evening. The latter had its cord around the former in an odd, tender embrace.

The shouting had ceased. The four appliances looked up at the woman in the nightgown with curlers in her hair and a baseball bat in her hands.

Before Barb could process what she saw, the gooseneck lamp hopped onto the sofa and tapped her forearm with its plug. "Tell them it isn't true, Mistress!" it begged. "Viking is coming home, isn't he? Please tell me he's not stuck on Mars!"

Barb stepped back, preparing to swing. Then she saw the poor creature curl up in a ball, regarding her fearfully with a pair of puppy-dog eyes. She lowered the bat.

"What the _hell_?" she said.


	7. Chapter 6 - The Prankster

_**Chapter 6 – The Prankster**_

Barb sat on the sofa, facing Zenith, Bradbury, Patricia, and Gene. They avoided each other's gazes, waiting to see who would break the silence.

"Let me get this straight," Barb said. "You're all sentient."

"Yes," Patricia replied.

"And you've always been alive."

"Indeed," Bradbury said, his voice hoarse from sobbing.

"Are all—" Barb fumbled for the proper term "—mechanical objects alive?"

"For better or for worse," Gene said. "And yes, there are others in this house." His avatar pointed towards the kitchen.

Barb leaned back, gazing up at the ceiling. "Holy shit."

None of the appliances knew what to say to that.

Patricia hopped onto the sofa beside Barb. "We're awful sorry about the existential crisis, Mistress. If you want, you can go back to bed and we'll pretend like this never happened."

"The old 'it was all a dream' trick," Gene sneered. "Does this look like the Twilight Zone to you?"

"At the moment, yes," Barb said drily, rubbing her eyes. She turned to Patricia. "I'm afraid that won't work. I know what I know. We'll have to learn to live with each other." She laughed, breathy and brittle.

"How are we going to do that?" Bradbury asked. "It goes without saying that this isn't how things are usually done, Mistress." He looked at her with those sad eyes again, like he worried she'd be angry with him and throw him away.

Barb saw the fear in the little lamp's eyes. Her expression softened. "Come here," she said, holding out her hands to him. Bradbury hopped onto her lap, and she hugged him.

"It'll be alright," she murmured. "I'm not getting rid of you—any of you—if that's what you're worried about."

Patricia and Bradbury looked relieved. Gene seemed surprised, an "I'll be damned" expression on his avatar's face.

Zenith, who till this moment had been uncharacteristically silent, hopped back and forth on the table to draw the group's attention. Once she had it, she shouted, "Patricia's wrong, isn't she, Dr. Brackett?"

"I beg your pardon?" Barb said.

Patricia raised her plug. "There was a bit of a misunderstanding. I'm afraid I had to be the bearer of bad news."

"Is that why you were shouting in the middle of the night?"

"That was mostly those two," Patricia said, pointing to Zenith and Gene, "but yes. The question was whether or not Viking 1 will come back to Earth now that his mission on Mars is complete. Zenith and Bradbury here were eager to meet him. I told them that, unfortunately, no such meeting is possible. Things escalated from there."

"Of course, it's impossible! There was never any plan to retrieve the landers after their missions ended."

"You mean Viking 2 is stuck up there, too?" Bradbury whimpered.

"Well, yes," Barb replied, confused. "NASA no longer has any use for it, or its twin. It's great that you appreciate the mission, but what's done is done. The agency isn't interested in going back for something that isn't even—"

"Isn't even what?" asked Bradbury.

Barb didn't answer. Her face turned pale. Her eyes widened till they looked like they'd pop out of her head. She raised one hand to her mouth and lowered it again before choking, "It, too?"

"Him, too!" Zenith amended.

"Him, too," Barb echoed. "Oh, god. Him, too!" She picked Bradbury up, set him gently down on the coffee table, and bolted for the bathroom. The appliances heard her repeating, over and over, "Him, too!"

"This is going well," Gene quipped.

* * *

Barb held the edge of the sink in a white-knuckled grip. Her brain raced in circles, as if it would flow out of her nose and down the drain. Her stomach did three little flips before tripping over itself and falling in a heap at the bottom of her abdomen.

Him, too!

She wished she could take Patricia up on her offer. Go back to sleep, get up in the morning, and go to work as she had yesterday and every day before. But Dr. Barbara Brackett knew better. She'd spent her whole life learning about, well, life. Figuring out what made living things tick. As a child, she collected specimens for her microscope slides by day and watched the stars with her telescope at night. She had consistently been at the top of her science classes through high school, college, and graduate school. After completing her biochemistry PhD, she conducted research and wrote up the results in articles that landed on the desks of people who knew people, and before Barb could say organic compound, she was having lunch with the head of the Viking biology team. Before she finished her salad, he had offered her a job.

So, Barb packed her bags, promised her niece and nephew she'd call them every week to fill them in on Viking news, and moved to California. The next five years were the most hectic of her life (her worst grad school all-nighter was a pleasant afternoon nap in comparison). Every waking moment thrummed with talk of soil samples and organic signatures and weight limits. On her rare days off, her mind strayed back to the experiment, wondering whether or not the damn thing would really work, once it was up there.

There were certainly bright spots amidst the chaos. Barb worked with many wonderful people, including the head of the biology team and her dear friend Thomas. She'd never forget those moments of terror and excitement as they awaited Viking 1's signal from the Martian surface. It's on Mars, one way or the other, Thomas had said. The eruption of cheers, hoorahs, and applause when the landing confirmation finally came still rang in her ears, years later.

Then they got the results of the labeled release. "Oh my God, it's positive!" Barb exclaimed to her colleagues. That was really the only thing to say. Some members of the team spiced it up with a little profanity, but the basic sentiment was the same.

What came next involved a great deal of painstaking analysis and arguments. More than one mighty ego sustained a serious bruise. Barb loved every bit of it. This was what she'd been working towards ever since she slid those slides under the microscope in her childhood bedroom. The journey had taken her from her family's New Jersey home all the way to California, and now, to Mars. No, she wouldn't trade any of it for the world.

(That's not quite true. Barb could have done without a certain arrogant, misogynistic nepotism beneficiary who still thought she was his damn maid or secretary or what have you. But at least Jim could be, and often was, ignored.)

They'd done it. She'd done it. Viking 1, and the team that put it on Mars, earned a place in the history books. Barb took pride in her status as a scientific trailblazer, the co-experimenter of the first test for life on another world.

Only life wasn't what she thought it was. Life, which had never felt any obligation to make sense to the overconfident mammals that considered themselves the pinnacle of evolution, dwelt in metal and plastic as well as flesh and blood. The jury was still out on the labeled release, but Barb now knew that there was life on Mars.

She sent him there.

Barb sunk down to the floor, her back against the wall, and leaned her head on her knees. Him. There was a living being up there. Two, actually – Viking 1 and his sibling, Viking 2. What about their orbiters, which had stopped transmitting years before the landers? Were they alive, too? Barb guessed they must be. _Oh Lord_, she thought. _They'll all rot up there_.

She wept.

There was a light knocking on the door. Barb got up to open it. She looked down to see Bradbury with a worried look on his face. "Did we upset you, Mistress? We didn't mean to. It's just—poor Viking!" The lamp started to cry.

Barb knelt down, wiping away her own tears. "You're right to be upset. I've done an awful thing, and there's no way to undo it."

Bradbury let Barb hug him again. She carried him back into the living room. She sat on the sofa and faced the others, Bradbury on her lap.

"Braddy, get over here this instant!" Zenith hissed. The radio turned to her Mistress with an angry burst of static. "How can you cuddle up to her? She left Viking for dead!"

"Mistress didn't know, well, you know," Bradbury said. "Otherwise things would have gone differently, right?" He gave Barb a pleading look.

"Yes, absolutely," Barb reassured him. Privately, she wondered what the mission might have looked like, had the spacecraft been given the respect they were due as sentient beings. It would have been an unbelievable ethical nightmare, she thought. Not that it wasn't one already. "And please, just call me Barb. None of this 'Mistress' stuff."

"Barb," Patricia said, trying it out, "I know this whole situation must be…rather unnerving, but thanks for listening to us. We usually keep our silence for a reason. There's no way of knowing how a human will react to something so, what's the word you used, Bradbury?"

"Paradigm-shifting," offered the gooseneck.

"Thank you. We were all terrified when you caught us, Barb. Luckily, everything worked out for the best."

"Did your bulb burn out?" Zenith snapped. "Viking's still up there!"

"He is," Barb said, "and I'll never stop being sorry for that." She held her head in her hands. "We humans are so goddamn cruel. I wanted to fix that. Finding life on other worlds would humble us, I thought. Inspire us to care more for each other, and all the life on this planet. But I didn't even know what life was, and an innocent machine paid the price for my ignorance."

Gene regarded his disconsolate Mistress from the other side of the coffee table. The avatar cocked his head to the left. "At least you're sorry," the TV said. His expression softened. "That's more than your colleagues can say."

Zenith's clock gave a skeptical tick. She swished her plug back and forth. "If you're so full of remorse, what are you going to do about it?"

Barb sighed. "I can't bring Viking back, but maybe I can persuade NASA to make some changes. I know this is hard to believe from your point of view, but most of the scientists are decent people. They'd never send a living thing to suffer on an empty world for all eternity."

The appliances winced. It sounded particularly horrible, when Barb put it like that.

"Let me tell them," she continued, "about all of you. It'll scare the hell out of them, but it's the only thing that might make the agency reevaluate its missions."

Gene switched to static.

Bradbury gasped.

Zenith shouted, "What?"

Patricia rubbed her shade with her plug. "With all due respect, Barb, that's not a good idea. Like I said before, humans are unpredictable. They're more likely to smash a talking lamp to pieces with a baseball bat than they are to ask her how she's doing. Letting the secret out isn't safe for us, or for you. What if your bosses think you've lost your mind? What if Dr. Milton tries to use this against you? Forgive me, but I don't care much for him."

"You're far too polite. He's a world-class bastard."

"Who might destroy your reputation if you let your guard down!"

Barb had to admit that the lamp made a good point. She reconsidered her plan. "What if," she proposed, "I tell one person I know I can trust? I can't promise he won't be taken aback, but he'll help us any way he's able."

"Who?"

"Your former Master. Thomas Bennett."

Patricia started to say something, then paused. Dr. Bennett was a good man. Always there for a friend in need. She supposed that if they had to trust a second human with the big secret, he was their best option.

The lamp nodded. "Alright. I think I can live with that. How are you going to convince him?"

"I'm going to need some help," Barb said. "Come to work with me tomorrow. We'll talk with him together."

Bradbury shuddered. "You want Patricia to unfreeze in front of another human?"

"It's the only way," Barb said. She turned to Patricia. "I won't make you do it if you don't want to. I can always take Zenith. I'm sure she'd love to give the other scientists a piece of her mind."

"Damn right I would!" said Zenith, hopping on her stumpy legs.

"I'll go," Patricia said. "If we can spare future machines Viking's fate, it's worth the risk."

Gene chose that moment to switch his avatar back on. The bespectacled man looked befuddled. "I don't believe this. You're trying to help us?"

"Perhaps there's more to human nature than you thought, Gene," Patricia said.

"I'll believe that when this little stunt gets results," replied the TV, and shut himself off.

Barb glanced at the wall clock. "Guess I'm not getting any sleep tonight. Better go make some coffee."

That got Zenith's attention, "Marilyn and Annie won't believe this!"

"Marilyn and Annie?"

"The coffee maker and the toaster. You didn't think we were it in this house, did you?"

"No, I guess not," Barb replied.

The two lamps, the radio, and their human walked into the kitchen. It was going to be an interesting day.


	8. Chapter 7 - Fling Wide the Portal

**_Chapter 7 – Fling Wide the Portal_**

As it turned out, Marilyn and Annie were absolutely lovely. The former, a General Electric Coffeematic, introduced herself without fear. She let loose a barrage of obscenities, said with a smile, after Zenith filled her in on the night's events.

"Oh shit, you're really going to tell someone?" Marilyn asked, giddy with excitement.

"Yes," Barb replied. "I know it's nuts, but it might do some real good. It's worth a shot."

"Indeed," said Annie, a Rowenta toaster. She was one of those fancy models from the seventies, her enamel surface striped in assorted shades of brown, arranged from darkest to lightest. She had smiled shyly at Barb when they were introduced. Now she stood in her usual place, on the counter near the fridge (Zenith's ex-boyfriend, Bradbury informed Barb), toasting a bagel.

"The man in question is my former Master," Patricia reassured the kitchen appliances. "Barb and I can trust him."

"He'd better be trustworthy," Marilyn said, "or else Zenith and I'll follow him to Houston or the goddamn Moon or wherever you said he was going, Barb, and—"

There was a loud pop! "Bagel's done!" Annie called.

Barb had her breakfast while the appliances chatted amongst themselves. Zenith and Marilyn huddled together, whispering and occasionally looking over at Barb. Bradbury stood next to Annie, who patiently listened to him gush about the book he was currently reading.

Barb marveled at them all, the conscious beings she shared a home with. She watched them laugh and argue. They had such powerful personalities, rich inner lives. They also knew, judging by the furtive glances that Frigidaire directed at Zenith, love and loss and heartbreak. They held strong opinions and felt the urge to act on them. They _lived_, in every sense of the word.

Look at Bradbury. He loved space more than some of the folks at NASA. Barb was pretty sure he could recite the results of Viking's experiments from memory, were she to quiz him. If he were a human, she'd refer him for a job at JPL right away. He'd make a better colleague than Jim, but it wasn't going to happen, and Barb was sorry for that.

She and Patricia were going to tell one person and one person only: Dr. Thomas Bennett, formerly of the Viking Imaging Team and Patricia's ex-Master. He was also Barb's best friend at JPL, the only person there she could trust with something this big and bizarre. She had spoken truthfully when she said she didn't know exactly how Thomas would react to a sentient lamp.

(In all fairness, the very possibility of such a thing had never occurred to her until about three hours ago, when she'd found herself in the same situation. Point being, this was uncharted territory for everyone.)

"I'm ready when you are," said Patricia from the other side of the table.

"Good," said Barb. She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. "Are you alright traveling in my purse? We don't want to look too suspicious."

* * *

They drove to JPL just after sunrise, golden light glinting on Barb's 1979 Oldsmobile Cutlass. Barb was not surprised to find that she, too, was alive. Her name was Vivian, and she was impeccably kind. She urged Barb and Patricia to be careful, and to keep their wits about them.

The security guard nodded to Barb as she entered the building. She walked faster down the hallway before he could take a closer look at her unusually bulky purse. First, she went to her own office and wrote a note, which she slid under Thomas's door. It read: _Meet me in my office ASAP. I have something important to show you._ Then she headed to the kitchen, with Patricia in tow, for her third cup of coffee.

After Barb gave the all-clear, Patricia climbed out of the purse. It took a little prodding, but eventually she persuaded the other appliances to unfreeze. She hopped over to Pana, the microwave. They hugged, and Patricia made the introductions.

"It's a pleasure, Dr. Brackett," said Pana, extending her plug.

Barb shook it. "Just 'Barb,' is fine," she said.

Mr. Coffee shuffled to the edge of the counter. "Nice to finally meet you. Speak with you, anyway. You know what I mean. Now, what on Earth is going on?"

Patricia told him.

"Well, Bennett's a better choice than Milton," said Mr. Coffee. "Bennett never broke my carafe."

"That was Jim?" Barb asked. About a year ago, the coffee maker's glass carafe had fallen on the floor and shattered. Someone quickly obtained a new one, and Barb dismissed the episode as an accident.

"Yeah. Somebody threatened to report him for unprofessional conduct, and he lost his mind. My carafe was the nearest breakable object, so he hurled it at the floor. Hot coffee and shards of glass went everywhere. He really proved that other person's point, don't you think?"

Barb patted Mr. Coffee on his "head." "I'm so sorry."

"I wish he'd get canned already. It's a long time coming."

"You and me both."

They heard footsteps in the hall. The appliances froze. Thomas Bennett poked his head through the doorway. "Morning, Barb. I got your note. Is everything alright?"

"Yes, yes, but we need to talk," Barb said. "Let's go back to my office."

"What's my lamp doing here? Is it broken?"

"I'll explain in a minute. Come on."

* * *

They took their seats, Barb at her desk, Thomas in the chair near the bookshelf. Patricia stood on the desk, at Barb's right hand.

"Who were you talking to in the kitchen?" Thomas asked.

Barb gestured to Patricia. The lamp opened her eyes and said, "Hello, Dr. Bennett."

Thomas stared at his "lucky lamp." He shook his head, rubbed his eyes, and blinked. "Good one, Barb," he laughed. "You got me. What are you going to do, stick the thing in Jim's office and have it go off? He'll shit himself!"

"You don't understand, Thomas," Barb said. "The lamp is alive. Always has been. Her name is Patricia."

Thomas didn't say anything for a few minutes. An uncomfortable silence hung over the office, broken only by the faint buzz of the overhead lights. Barb wondered what they thought of the situation unfolding beneath them.

"We're sorry for springing this on you, Dr. Bennett," said Patricia, "but you're the only person here we can trust."

"What the hell?" Thomas muttered. He pointed at Patricia. "This thing is creeping me out."

"_She_ agreed to come here with me today because she knows you and trusts you. Please, listen to her. We need your help."

Thomas sat up straighter. He had the look of a schoolboy who had just received a failing grade on a test he was sure he'd aced. "Go ahead, then."

Patricia filled him in on the sentient-appliance business, Barb's own "discovery" of said sentience the night before, and the resultant angst over the implications this knowledge had for NASA's missions. The bemused man didn't look away from her for a second.

"If you've always been alive," Thomas said slowly, once Patricia had finished, "then you had a front-row seat for the past thirty years of my life. My parents bought you in 1953!"

"Your mother told your father he needed a good desk lamp, or else he'd hurt his eyes, working late nights in the dark. I've been in the same line of work ever since. Bright light for bright minds." Patricia smiled at the memory.

"So you know everything. All the projects I ever worked on, and some of my dad's, too." Thomas raised a hand to his forehead. "He worked for a defense contractor. Maybe you should put in for a security clearance. Either that, or get on the phone with Moscow. I'm sure they'd love to chat!"

Thomas burst out laughing. The sheer absurdity of the situation was really rattling him. There were stages to the humans' responses, Patricia observed. They had shown the same initial shock at the sight of living appliances. Now, Thomas was in the confusion stage. Whereas Barb's had manifested in white knuckles and dead-eyed stares, Thomas's showed itself in his rambling sentences and awkward attempts at humor.

He stood up and began pacing around the room.

"This means that my shaver and toaster oven and bedside lamp are alive," he said. "The dishwasher and the vacuum and the ceiling fan. Jesus Christ. And we're talking about all mechanical things, right? Not only the household ones."

Barb nodded.

_Oh dear,_ Patricia thought, _here it comes._

"That means all the satellites and probes we've launched," Thomas stopped in his tracks. "Oh my god."

_There it is. Overwhelming existential dread, with a heaping side of guilt._

Thomas started shaking. He seemed like he might collapse. Barb hurried over to him, grabbed his arm, and lead him back to his chair. He hyperventilated. Patricia saw tears welling in his eyes.

Barb put her hands on his shoulders and said, "Stay with me Thomas. Don't look away."

Thomas looked over Barb's shoulder at Patricia, then covered his face with his hands. "We're fucking monsters," he whispered.

The others gave Thomas a moment to compose himself. "You didn't know," Patricia said once he'd stopped crying, "but now you do. Will you help us fix things?"

He stared at the lamp and sighed. "There's no fixing what's done," he said. "I'm sure Barb already said that. Our best bet is to focus on future missions, but in order to do that, we'll need to let more people in on our little secret."

"I was afraid you'd say that," Patricia replied.

"What choice do we have? I'm moving to Houston in a couple of weeks, and Barb will probably get that job offer any day now. We need someone to stick around here and get things done."

Patricia nodded her shade. "I suppose you're right. By Edison, this is getting out of hand!"

"At this rate," Barb said, "we'll have our own secret society in no time."

"A human-appliance alliance," Thomas offered. "I can get behind that. But we really just need one key person, someone with leverage. Bill Parker might be our guy. I hear he's in talks to be Chief Engineer."

"Isn't he friends with Dr. Milton?" Patricia asked.

"For the time being. Between the three of us, and whatever objects happen to be listening, Jim's been getting on Bill's nerves lately. I think Parker has finally had enough of the bastard, and this could be the thing that pulls him away from the old boys' club."

Barb mulled the idea over. Bill wasn't all bad. He stood up to Jim for her the other day, during their fight in the kitchen. Of course, there had been many more times when Bill remained silent as Jim made snide, cruel comments. She didn't think Bill shared Jim's vile views, but she worried that his reluctance to challenge the status quo meant he wasn't the man for this job. They needed a maverick, not a people-pleaser. She told Thomas and Patricia as much.

"Dr. Parker doesn't have to make any sweeping pronouncements," Patricia said. "He needs to do what you did, Barb. He needs to tell one person, who tells one other person, and so on."

"Work covertly, rather that overtly," said Barb, "I think I understand. If we go right for the top brass, we'll get shut down before we've even started. We need to build our human-appliance alliance from the ground up."

"And then we'll…do what, exactly?" Thomas wondered. "Are we supposed to stop launching missions? I doubt we can swing that. Bad optics for the agency, you know."

"We'll think of something," Patricia said, ever the cheerleader. "Now, go get our engineer!"

Barb headed for the door, Thomas right behind her. She pushed it open, prompting a loud "Aaah!" from someone in the hallway.

"Geez, I'm sorry," Barb said, "I didn't mean to—"

Jim Milton stepped out from behind the door, cursing under his breath.

Barb nearly fell over backwards. "What the hell are you doing, Jim?"

Jim said nothing. He turned on his heel and bolted down the hall. Barb and Thomas watched him go, then stood in stunned silence for a few minutes.

"That was weird," said Barb, shutting the door.

Thomas shrugged. "I'll go find Bill and bring him back here."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"What's Jim going to do, tattle to the Director?"

There was a knock on the door.

Barb opened it to find the Director's secretary, Joanne Link, waiting on the other side.

"Dr. Brackett," Joanne said, "the Director would like a word with you."

* * *

Barb knocked politely on the Director's door. "Come in," called a nasal male voice.

The Director sat at a massive desk piled high with papers. Shelves lined the walls to Barb's left and right, some filled with books and others with spacecraft models, including one of the Viking lander. Behind the Director, a large picture window looked out over a well-kept quad.

Jim stood by the shelf with the Viking model. When Barb walked into the room, his lips parted in an evil little smile. _Shit_, Barb thought.

"Jim, Barb, have a seat," said the Director, gesturing to the two uncomfortable-looking chairs in front of his desk.

They took their seats.

"Barb," the Director began, "Jim has come to me with some, how shall I put this, rather disturbing descriptions of your conduct. He tells me you believe that our space probes are sentient beings, which we cruelly abandoned after their missions ended."

_Damn it, Jim!_ Barb almost screamed.

"He also said that you convinced Thomas Bennett of this nonsense, and are conspiring with him and Bill Parker to sabotage future missions."

_Sabotage? You slimy little—_

"Further, he alleges that you tampered with the Viking 1 lander before it was sent to Florida for its launch. He saw you entering and leaving the lab at odd hours, and heard you talking to yourself."

"She was talking to the machine, sir," Jim said.

"Is that so," the Director said. His expression was unreadable. "What do you have to say for yourself, Barb?"

Barb took a deep breath, unclenched her fists, and folded her hands in her lap. "That is absolutely ridiculous, sir," she replied. "As a biochemist and the co-experimenter of the labeled release, I understand the importance of the protection protocols in place for this mission, and I followed them to the letter. Not doing so could have resulted in irreparable damage to the spacecraft and to the Martian environment."

Another deep breath. "It's true that I joked about the spacecraft being stuck on Mars. 'Oh, poor guy, he can't come home!' That sort of talk. We get attached to things we dedicate so much of our time and energy to, but it's all in good fun. I daresay it's profoundly human." She smiled.

The Director nodded.

Jim panicked. "But what about your sneaking in and out of the lab?"

"Putting in overtime," Barb said. "You know as well as anyone, Jim, how hectic things became during the leadup to launch. As I recall, you new hires had a lot on your plate."

Jim's face reddened. He looked at the Director pleadingly, as if to say, Can't you see she's lying?

The Director cleared his throat. "Thank you, Barb. You've confirmed my suspicions." He turned to Jim and shook his head. "Spreading malicious rumors about a distinguished colleague. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"

Jim sputtered, "I swear, I heard her talk to that goddamn machine—"

"That's enough!" shouted he Director. He was a soft-spoken man, and Barb had never heard him raise his voice before. _Jim really pissed him off_, she thought. _I can certainly sympathize._

The Director stood up, walked around his desk, and offered Barb his hand. She rose and shook it.

"Dr. Brackett, please accept my sincerest apologies. You were an invaluable member of the Viking team, and JPL will always honor your contributions. You may rest assured that Dr. Milton will answer for his reprehensible conduct."

Barb could have jumped for joy right then and there. Instead she said, "Thank you, sir. May I go now? I have a busy day ahead of me."

"Of course."

Jim made a move for the door, only to be stopped by a steely stare from the Director. "Jim, stay here a minute. We need to talk."

Barb turned toward the door before either of the men could glimpse her wicked grin. As she left, she saw something out of the corner of her eye. "Sir, why is that lamp next to the garbage can?"

"Oh, I've ordered a new one. The times, they are a-changing. I don't want to be stuck in the seventies, aesthetically-speaking."

She knelt down for a closer look. The lamp had a long neck and a red shade. They (Barb couldn't bear using "it" anymore, so she opted for the respectful non-gender-specific pronoun) looked perfectly fine to her. "There's nothing wrong with this lamp, sir."

"If you want it, take it. Otherwise it's headed for the junkyard."

Barb picked up the lamp. _Not on my watch_, she thought.

* * *

"That was a close one," Barb said. She and Thomas were back in her office, coffee mugs in hand. Her door was open, as were all the others in the hall. They listened as the sounds of an epic dressing-down emanated from the Director's office. The Director, it turned out, had quite the vocabulary and was an expert at wielding it for maximum effect.

The yelling stopped. Barb and Thomas wondered if they should applaud. They watched as Jim stomped out of the Director's office and headed for his own.

People resumed their conversations. Doors closed. The moment's spell was broken, and everyone went back to work. Whatever they felt about the morning's events, they kept it to themselves.

Barb was about to shut her door when she spotted Bill Parker strolling down the hall toward her. She let him into the office.

"You heard?" Bill asked.

Thomas nodded. "Good riddance. It's a damn shame it took so long."

"I couldn't agree more. I'm sorry I sat idly and let him get away with his crap. And I'm sorry that I took his side over yours, Barb. You never should have had to put up with that."

"Apology accepted," Barb said. "Now, do you have a few minutes? We need to show you something. Thomas, close the door, please. Patricia, come and meet Bill."

Patricia opened her eyes.

When Bill got "the Talk," as the lamp was starting to think of it, he reacted much as Thomas had. Bluster, bad jokes, questions, and finally, mind-curdling terror. Patricia talked him down from the edge, and Bill began to listen as Barb described what they wanted to do. He promised to help them in every way he could.

Bill left Barb's office an hour or so later, after they'd brainstormed a couple of ideas for protecting future machines. Thomas left shortly thereafter, to go and finish packing up his things. Barb realized, in that moment, just how much she'd miss him.

She smiled._ By god, we're really going to do it!_ She would always regret what happened to Viking, but she took heart from the new sense of purpose the plan brought her. No machine would suffer such an awful fate ever again. She'd see to it.

The phone rang.

Barb picked it up. "Good morning, this is Dr. Barbara Brackett speaking."

"Dr. Brackett! Just the woman I wanted to talk to. This is Dean Riley, from Johns Hopkins. I'm calling to offer you the professorship in Biochemistry, beginning this fall."

Barb leaned against her desk. With the past day's chaos, she'd forgotten about the impending job offer—or rejection. She sighed with relief that she'd been given the former.

"Thank you, Dean Riley. I accept, of course! I suppose I'd better get my affairs in order and look for a place to live near Baltimore."

"Excellent!" Dean Riley bellowed. "I can connect you with some of your future colleagues, if you like. I'm sure they'd be delighted to give you a hand."

"That would be lovely, thank you. Please excuse me, sir. I have a lot of work to do."

He congratulated her again. Barb bade him goodbye and hung up. Her phone, a cheery little character named Daphne, offered some well-wishes of her own.

Barb slumped into her desk chair, the lack of sleep at last catching up with her. _Just a power nap,_she thought. _I've earned it._

Before she could shut her eyes, Thomas opened the door. "Come on, Barb! The Director is taking us out to lunch"

She realized she was starving. "Alright, I'm coming. By the way, I have some good news…"

* * *

"Johns Hopkins," Bradbury said. "That's in Baltimore, right? And Baltimore is near D.C. That means we can go to the Air and Space Museum! Oh, I can't wait to see Friendship 7 and Columbia and the Spirit of St. Louis—"

Barb laughed. She sat in the leather armchair in her study, surrounded by shelves and piles of books. Bradbury perched atop one of those piles, listening intently as Barb announced her job offer and moving plans. Patricia and Zenith were on the desk. The radio flipped through one of her beloved scientific journals. She pointed to something on the page, and Patricia made a scandalized face. Barb gathered that this was not at all out of character for Zenith.

It was odd to think of a machine as a heartthrob, especially one as funny-looking as Viking. Then again, human beings often found themselves attracted to the unlikeliest of partners. Who was Barb to judge?

Speaking of attraction, Lowell fit in with the household right away. The presence of Patricia, an old friend, no doubt made it easier, but the others welcomed him with open arms. Er, cords (Barb was still learning appliance terminology and idioms). None more so than Annie, much to her housemates' surprise. She and Lowell had caught each other's eye as soon as Barb brought the lamp home. Now they sat in the middle of the floor, a coffee-table book of Mars photographs open in front of them. Lowell read one of the captions aloud as Annie listened, her cord wrapped around her new beau.

"Atta girl, Annie!" called Zenith. The toaster looked embarrassed, and Patricia whacked the radio on the "head" with her cord.

Barb smiled. "A friend of mine from college works for the Smithsonian," she told Bradbury. "Maybe she can help us with that."

"Don't your brother and his family live out that way?" Zenith asked.

"They do. I took this job to be closer to them." Barb's younger brother, Harold, lived in a suburb of Baltimore with his wife, Linda, and their teenage children, Eric and Tracy. She wanted to be near her family, true, but after the events of the last twenty-four hours, she'd gained another motivation. Barb thought that younger people might have an easier time adjusting to sentient machines. She intended to test this theory with her niece and nephew, if they were willing. They were good kids, both interested in science, and Barb figured they'd bring a fresh perspective to their aunt's mad errand.

"I suppose," said Annie, "since you're moving, you'll be buying some, um—" Her eyes filled with tears, and she couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence.

"Some what?" asked Barb.

"—new appliances." Annie leaned into Lowell and wept.

Barb jumped out of her chair and knelt on the floor. "No, no, no," she said. "I'm not getting rid of you. Any of you. We're…a family." Barb meant it.

Lowell held Annie close. "Earlier today, Barb saved me from the scrapyard," he said. "She didn't have to do that, but she did. We are in good hands."

"Thank you, Lowell," Barb said. "If anything, you'll end up with some new friends. But you? Us?" She spread her arms, as if to embrace the room, and said, "We're a team. Human-appliance alliance, remember?"

"Human-appliance alliance!" Zenith shouted, waving her plug.

"Could you _be _any louder?" Gene called from the living room. "Now get out here. _Star Trek _is about to start!"

All of the appliances save for Bradbury rushed out the door. "You coming, Braddy?" Zenith asked.

"I'll be out in a minute," said the gooseneck. He hopped over to Barb and looked up at her.

God, those big eyes melted her heart every time. "I'll never stop being sorry," she said, her voice cracking. "He didn't deserve what we did to him. None of them did."

It was Bradbury's turn to do the comforting. He rested his plug on Barb's shoulder. "You can't change the past," he said, "but you're already changing the future. That's all you can do."

Barb wiped her eyes, stood up, and picked up Bradbury. She looked around her study and thought of all the work she had done there, unaware that she had simultaneously been educating her lamp, fueling his passion for the cosmos. She walked over to the picture frame on the wall opposite her armchair. It held a single page, cut from a magazine. On the page, in very small print that Barb had more trouble reading as the years wore on, was a poem titled "Why Viking Lander/Mars?" At the bottom of the page, the author had autographed it: _To Barb, Congratulations! You're a Martian! Best wishes, Ray Bradbury._

"Oh, I love that poem!" said Bradbury the lamp. "He captured the spirit of the mission so beautifully!" He began to read,

_Why Mars? Why Viking-Lander on its way?_

_To landfall Time, give man Forever's Day…._

_Unlock the doors of light-year grave_

_Fling wide the portal_

_Give man the gift of stars_

_Grow him immortal._

_Put down the Dark, kill final Death,_

_And sweeten Man with everlasting breath._

Barb pondered those words. At the time the human Bradbury wrote them, she'd found them a bit flowery, even as she shared his awe. Now, she couldn't help but feel sad, and a little angry. Maybe the author was right, and the Viking mission would pave the way for future Mars explorers, allowing humans to become an interplanetary species. Perhaps Barb herself was one of the immortals, her name forever connected with scientific achievement.

Or maybe the only immortal in this equation was Viking himself. Barb knew (Patricia had told her) that the boundaries of life and death were different for machines. There was a strong possibility that Viking would languish on the Martian surface for centuries, until his body crumbled and his consciousness fluttered away like dust on the breeze.

What kind of forever was that?

"Braddy, Barb, it's starting!" yelled Zenith from the other room. Barb heard _Star Trek_'s unmistakable theme music.

The woman and the lamp looked at each other with deep understanding, then went to join their friends.

* * *

**Author's Note: Ray Bradbury's poem "Why Viking Lander/Mars" was originally published in _Star Reach_ Issue #6 (a sci-fi comic anthology, in 1976. Bradbury read the poem aloud at the 1976 San Diego Comic Con, about a week after Viking 1 landed on Mars.**


	9. Chapter 8 - Viking Lander on His Way

_**Chapter 8 – Viking Lander on His Way**_

Do you know how it feels when they cut you loose? How the line sounds when it goes dead, the connection fraying and fading like an old memory? The wind, your constant companion, whistles between your eyes and rains dust upon you. You are a relic, an antique tucked away in a musty corner of an attic or basement, useless and forgotten. Across the stars, people and machines live their lives, sparing nary a thought for you. Why should they? Your mission is over. You did your job. Now you stand in dignified silence on the golden plain, awaiting the day the humans arrive to stick their flag in Martian soil.

Or so your makers think.

"Goddamn it all!" I yelled, not for the first time, at the sky over Chryse.

I felt Tinselina walking around on my back, her skirt rustling. After all these years, we were so attuned to each other's moods and movements that I wasn't at all surprised when she sat down beside my right eye, shook her fist in the air, and said, "Yes, goddamn the sky!"

We laughed like we used to, back when we still had the hope of a warm welcome and so much else besides. You know you have it rough when you start missing your old daydreams.

Then, as quick as our laughter started, it was over. We stared sullenly at a large boulder in front of us. We kept staring until the damn thing went fuzzy at the edges. What else was there to do? I felt the familiar bitterness creeping into my thoughts, souring the sweet moment we had just shared.

"Why don't we go somewhere else?" Tinselina asked, snapping me out of my sulk. "We might as well. It's not like we're waiting for anybody."

She spoke true. I pondered the idea. At first, I wanted to reject it. I'm a lander, see. I've got three strong legs, perfect for keeping me and my payload standing tall against dust storms and time. Three sturdy footpads planted on the planet's surface like Armstrong's flag on the moon, a proclamation of peace for all mankind or the might of the USA (it depends on who you ask). Instruments for testing and tasting and measuring, all from the comfort of this oh-so-wonderful spot the scientists picked out for me. My vantage point, my pedestal, my grave.

I wasn't built to walk. Nor was I built to think my own thoughts, or enjoy the breeze on my panels, or fall in love, but look at me now. I'd do well not to limit myself to the purpose devised by people who saw me as a soulless piece of hardware.

"I haven't the foggiest idea where we'd go, darling," I said, as if we were an ordinary couple heading out for a stroll in the park.

"Well, we have plenty of options," Tinselina said.

I supposed she was right. "Pick a direction and start walking?"

"Sounds good to me! You never know what we might find."

How beautiful she was. I'd do anything to keep her spark of hope and wonder alive. I stared at my feet. This was going to be interesting. "You ready up there?" I called.

She wrapped her arms around the neck of my dish and gave it a squeeze. "As I'll ever be."

Here goes nothing, I thought. I took a couple of deep, purely theatrical breaths. My left leg creaked in protest when I lifted it. I swore and set my foot down a few inches from its original position with an assertive _thud!_ I repeated that little production with my right leg, and again with my rear leg. I paused. Damn, I was already sore, and we hadn't moved more than a foot.

This was going to take a while.

I kept moving through the stiffness and pain. As my legs got used to walking, I was able to take bigger steps. Eventually I reached a steady pace, a point where I could contemplate something besides putting one foot in front of the other. I didn't want to think about where we were going, since I was pretty sure the answer was "Nowhere, Mars." Our future looked as flat and featureless as the horizon, so I let my mind wander backwards, to the world we'd never see again.

"What are you thinking about?" Tinselina's voice was gentle. The question was her way of saying I could tell her whatever was on my mind.

"Earth," I said. "The lab. My team."

"Do you miss them?"

"I'm not sure." Missing them implied that I liked them, and liking them suggested that I'd forgiven them for our present situation. "But they're all I remember of home."

* * *

Indulge me while I explain the miracle of life. Don't worry, I won't get too graphic. You see, when two machines love each other very much…I'm kidding, don't look at me like that! Anyway, we're not born, per se. We simply _are not_, then, with the flip of a techno-metaphysical switch, we _are_. We machines call this emergence of consciousness "waking up."

I woke up with my eyes shut. Humans were present, so I had no choice. (That was one of the things we knew before we learned our own names. Rules, so many Rules.) I remember their voices echoing around the lab, the chilled air, the sounds of people in motion.

"Which one is this?" asked a man, enunciating each word as if it were its own sentence.

"Lander 2, sir," said a second man, "on target for a September launch." He sounded young, and like he very much wanted the first man to take him seriously.

"Excellent, Jim. It sure is an odd contraption. I daresay there isn't a science fiction writer alive who could dream up such a machine. I'd have preferred something a little more symmetrical myself, but I suppose function trumps form."

I was all of two minutes old, and the boss had already called me ugly. In retrospect, that was a red flag.

"We'll conduct an inspection of the spacecraft shortly," said Jim, "and then we'll prepare it for decontamination. No Earth organics will hitch a free ride with us, sir!" Was I imagining things, or had Jim said that last bit with a hint of nervousness, as if he had something to hide? I decided I'd remember his voice and pay attention when he came into the lab, in case he was up to something.

A third person hurried over to the two men. "Director Adams," said a woman's voice, "Gil and Barb are suited up. Shall I let them in?"

"Please do," said the older man, the Director. "Thank you, Mrs. Link."

Mrs. Link left, and a couple of minutes later, I heard two pairs of feet shuffling towards me.

"Dr. Levin, Dr. Brackett! A pleasure, as always," the Director greeted the newcomers. "You've met Jim Milton, I presume."

"Gil, how've you been?" Jim interjected. I heard him clasp the other man's hand and shake it vigorously.

"Fine," Dr. Levin replied. He and Jim were not friends, I gathered.

"Hello Jim," Dr. Brackett said, with a similar lack of enthusiasm.

"Barb." He spat her name like a curse. There was no love lost between these two. Duly noted.

The Director cleared his throat. I suspected he'd had plenty of practice at keeping the peace. "Gentlemen, Dr. Brackett, please accept my sincerest congratulations on a job well done. Viking will be a pioneer! We'll see how the Russians like that." He laughed.

"Thank you, sir, but the hard part is still ahead." Dr. Brackett spoke with the confidence of one explaining her life's work. "We have to get to Mars first. Even if the landing is successful, some or all of the experiments could fail. Remember Mars 3."

_Well thanks, doc,_ I thought. _That's reassuring._

They kept talking about the mission—my mission. Jim, a member of the engineering team, gave a rundown of my payload: cameras, weather sensors, seismometer, soil sampler, and so on. When he got to the biology experiments, Dr. Brackett took over. Jim grunted in annoyance as he ceded the floor.

Dr. Brackett explained how the labeled release experiment would test for life on Mars. The microbial variety, of course. Pictures from the Mariner probes had already shown a desert planet, replete with rocky plains, hills, mountains, and canyons, but no oceans, forests, or civilizations. I'd scan the soil for traces of organics, and Dr. Brackett's team back on Earth would interpret the results.

But first, I'd have to land on Mars, in one piece, which the Americans had never done before. I swung between excitement and terror on my platform, never twitching or making a sound. Rules were Rules.

Dr. Brackett finished speaking right as a technician approached the Director. The woman whispered something to him, which prompted a heated exchange in low voices that ended with the Director's curt "Oh, fine. Good thing we have two of them."

"What's wrong, sir?" Dr. Brackett asked.

"Lander 1's batteries haven't charged properly. We'll swap it out with this one so we can fix the problem."

I heard Dr. Brackett approach me. She took quick, purposeful steps. "I hereby christen you Viking 1!" she proclaimed.

"Barb, you sound ridiculous," said Jim, in what I presumed was his natural condescending tone.

Dr. Brackett started to say something, but Dr. Levin cut her off. "We have a lot of work to do. Come on, Barb. Please excuse us, sir."

The Director bid him goodbye. Before Dr. Brackett followed her colleague, she darted up to me and whispered, "Today's your lucky day. You're going to be a pioneer!"

I decided then and there that I liked her.

* * *

"I wonder whatever happened to him," Tinselina said. "Your twin, I mean. Maybe we'll run into him out there. A family reunion. Wouldn't that be nice?"

"NASA set him down on the other side of the planet," I said. "I suppose we'll get there eventually. Maybe he'll find us first." I held back a sob. It was so unfair. At least I had Tinselina. My poor brother was all alone. I can only imagine what the isolation was doing to him.

"How could they do this?" Tinselina asked. This wasn't the first time she'd posed this question, and she never expected a real answer, but her fury was so palpable this time that I had to say something.

"They didn't know what they were doing." I reminded myself of that constantly. They didn't know, couldn't know. Might have known, because I—

"That's no excuse!" she shouted. I'd never seen her this angry before. "Those people were geniuses, right? And you were valuable to them? I thought Dr. Brackett cared, at least. Why didn't she say something?"

That did it. I stopped walking and let the tears come. Tinselina nestled beside my left eye. I heard her weeping, too.

"She cared," I said. I still believe it, after everything. "She truly did, but she was human, and she didn't know about me. About us." And out of her ignorance was born our present nightmare.

* * *

Over the next few days, more people came to visit me. There was a man by the name of Sagan who was very good at explaining things. He seemed like the kind of guy who should have his own TV show. Then came the NASA officials asking the same questions over and over and over again, much to the annoyance of Jim, who hated repeating himself. A photographer took pictures of me for the newspaper. Technicians swarmed around me, making sure every part was in its proper place.

Dr. Brackett came by every day. She didn't need to. Her first visit, on the day I woke up, was a formality. Her labeled release experiment was tucked away inside of me, ready to go. Still, she kept hanging around the lab, and I was grateful for it.

Sometimes, if there were no other humans within earshot, she'd start talking to herself. She said some delightful things when she thought no one else was listening.

She had quite the vocabulary, and I remember it vividly. Tinselina pretended to give me grief whenever I used one of Dr. Brackett's signature obscenities, like "Jesus Fucking Phobos Christ!" and then started using them herself.

Sometimes she vented her frustrations with certain colleagues. Namely, the male ones. "'Wait a minute, you're Dr. Brackett? The biochemist?' he asked in disbelief. 'No, I'm Barb the bagel. Of course, the biochemist!' I said. Did he think my lab coat was a goddamn costume? Come on, we're in the seventies, get with the times! Unbelievable…"

Then Dr. Brackett started talking directly to me. She was shy about it at first—there was always the chance someone might hear her and make an unfortunate assumption—but eventually she grew comfortable.

"He's a piece of shit," she said after Jim tried to explain her own experiment to her for the third time that day. "Doesn't know what the hell he's talking about."

"You all set?" she murmured after the head engineer personally supervised one of the many, many equipment checks performed during the leadup to launch. "Let me know if you need anything." I can't tell you how badly I wanted to answer, to thank her. The other scientists were decent people (Jim excluded), but Dr. Brackett was genuinely kind.

She cared. Please, please tell me she cared.

Mission prep continued at warp speed. I learned that I'd soon be shipped east to Florida for my launch. As the date of departure drew near, Dr. Brackett started coming to the lab later in the day. Busy woman, that one. I was touched that she made time for me, no matter what else went on in her life.

One evening, after most of the humans had clocked out, Dr. Brackett walked into the lab. She said hello to Harrison, the lone technician still at his workbench, and reassured him that she'd only be here a few minutes.

Dr. Brackett stood in front of me. I'd never seen her face—Rules are Rules, remember—but I swear I felt her gaze fixed on me like she knew there was a thinking creature beneath the metal.

"It's almost time for you to go," she said, a hint of wistfulness in her voice. "You know, I think I'll miss our heart-to-hearts, one-sided as they are."

I wished they didn't have to be.

"I won't lie to you. Space is hard. So many things can go wrong, and they have, for us and for the Russians. Not every spacecraft makes it. But you will. You're a pioneer, Viking. You're going to do such great things. I believe in you."

I know I shouldn't have done it. You don't need to chastise me again. I broke the number one capital-R Rule. Oh, well. Damn the Rules. She believed in me.

I opened my eyes, smiled, and winked at her. For a second, Dr. Brackett simply stared at me, brown eyes wide beneath her goggles, mouth covered by a cloth mask. She wore the obligatory white suit, designed to minimize contamination by Earthly microbes. She backed away from me, her plastic boots losing purchase on the smooth floor, and fell on her behind.

"What the hell is going on?" she said.

"Everything okay over there, Brackett?" asked Harrison from the other side of the room.

Dr. Brackett picked herself up, ran a hand over her sore backside, and said, "I'm fine. Thought I saw something strange, is all."

"You need to go home and get some rest."

"Yeah, you're right. It's been a long day."

"More like a long month. Now get a move on. It's almost eight."

"Damn, already?" She turned back around, saw that I'd hidden my face, and sighed. It'd be easy to write the episode off as a symptom of exhaustion. Harrison was right. Dr. Brackett worked too hard.

The lab was silent. Dr. Brackett breathed in and out several times. She laid one gloved hand next to my right eye. "Good luck," she said.

After Dr. Brackett left the lab, another figure slipped in. Harrison had gone home, so there were no humans around to see Jim Milton stick a bundled-up object beneath my satellite dish and run like hell when the deed was done.

My dear Tinselina, I believe you know what came next.

* * *

We kept walking. I had to, or else the sadness would overwhelm me. Why did I still like Dr. Brackett so damn much after she threw me away? I'd never go home, never meet my brother, never have the family I desperately wanted, all because she and the rest of those pranksters at NASA were too fragile to come here themselves.

I didn't know what to feel, so I kept moving. We walked under blue sunsets, over russet hills, and beside forbidding cliffs and canyons. I left Dr. Brackett and the rest of my past behind. Whole sols went by without either of us uttering a single word. There isn't much to say about it. We walked, and walked, until one sol, close to sunset, when the powder-blue twilight fell on something shiny just over the horizon.

"I'll be damned," I said. "Do you see that, Tinselina?"

She perched on my dish to get a better look. "Whatever it is, it's as big as you are!"

Could it be my brother? Or was it a cold, cruel mirage? I took huge, unwieldy steps, my approximation of a run. Picture a three-legged moose weaving around boulders and fallen branches, and you'll have a pretty good idea of how absurd I looked, barreling towards this thing. It grew larger as we approached. I slowed down. "Hello?" I called. "Is anyone there?"

"We come in peace!" Tinselina offered.

I stopped once we were about ten feet away from it. Tinselina and I gasped.

It was a refrigerator. Roughly my height, light blue enamel, gleaming chrome detail. Its brand insignia was a large _W_.

Its door opened, revealing a small object on the top shelf. "It can't be!" exclaimed the little fellow in a surprisingly loud, deep voice. He hopped onto the ground. He was a hearing aid, I realized, using the fridge as transportation. To quote another of Dr. Brackett's curses, what in the nine deep-fried circles of hell was this?

The hearing aid approached us. "They told me I'd never find you," he said. "Viking, er, pardon me, are you Viking 1 or 2?"

My mouth hung open. We'd walked into a surreal, science-fictional hellscape. I was at a loss for words.

Tinselina answered for me. "He's Viking 1. I'm Tinselina." She tapped her foot. I picked her up and held her against my side rather than setting her down. I didn't trust this thing. Why was he on Mars?

"It is an honor to meet both of you. What a glorious day this is for our cause, a day we will look back upon as the dawning of a new age!"

His proclamation shook some of my senses back into place. "What are you talking about?" I asked, fully prepared to step on him if his answer rubbed me the wrong way.

"Come with me, back to camp, and I will tell you all you wish to know. The others are waiting."

"Others?"

"You'll see," said the hearing aid, with a sly smile.

Tinselina and I exchanged resigned looks. Either we followed the hearing aid, or went back to wandering the planet like a pair of restless spirits. "What do you think?"

"Let's go with him. If push comes to shove, well, you can push that fridge over." She beamed at me. I'd move whole planets for that smile.

"We're coming," I said to the hearing aid. "Lead the way, Mr., um…"

"Where are my manners? You may call me Supreme Commander."


	10. Chapter 9 - Grow Them Immortal

_**Chapter 9 – Grow Them Immortal**_

_Appliances and machines are not "born" in the same manner as humans or other mammals. Nor do they hatch, like birds, reptiles, or insects, from eggs. Rather, the "Waking Up" of an appliance - that is, the moment when the individual consciousness emerges - occurs after construction of the physical form is complete. The gap between physical completion and Waking Up varies. It may be instantaneous, or it may take several weeks or even months. Our sources reported a wide range of time gaps. One, a 1952 Zenith Owl-Eye radio (henceforth called Zenith) recalls Waking Up on the shelf of a store in Bayonne, NJ. She estimates, given the time necessary to inspect, package, and ship her, that the elapsed time between her construction and Waking Up was approximately five weeks._

\- Barbara Brackett & Thomas Bennett, _Principles of Technobiology_ (unpublished manuscript)

* * *

_December 4, 1996_

Rubbing the last traces of sleep from her eyes, Barb walked into the living room. She barely had time to take her glasses out of the pocket of her bathrobe and put them on before three enthusiastic beams of light hit her full in the face.

She shielded her face with her hands. "Alright, I'm awake! Good lord. What time is it?"

"Two-thirty a.m.," Patricia said, far too chipper for so early in the morning.

"Showtime!" yelled Zenith, standing atop a bookshelf.

"We are Go for launch!" Bradbury hollered from the sofa.

Behind him, on a side table, Lowell grinned. The red lamp was calm and professional by nature, but, much like the humans at his old workplace, made no secret of his excitement when launch day rolled around. "Third time's the charm, eh, Barb?"

"It damn well better be." They had scrubbed the launch twice already, due to bad weather. Barb sat down next to Bradbury. "God, this takes me back. We were up at the crack of dawn for Viking's landing back in '76." She paused, and a pained look crossed her face. Some things, she'd never stop regretting.

A series of thumps sounded in the hallway, growing louder as Pana entered the living room. The microwave hopped over to Patricia, and the two appliances huddled together in front of the coffee table, cords entwined. Thomas had rescued Pana from JPL when the maintenance staff bought a new microwave and threw her out. She asked him to send her to Barb, so that she could be reunited with her friend, Patricia.

It was plain to see, as soon as Pana arrived on Barb's doorstep, that the lamp and microwave's feelings for one another had progressed past friendship some time ago. _They look so cute together_, Barb thought. _Thomas, you did right_.

Thomas wandered in from the guest room, as if Barb's memory had conjured him out of thin air. "Don't tell me I slept through it," he said with a yawn.

"We're at T minus 20 minutes till liftoff," said Roger, the new TV. He switched from a view of the rocket on the launch pad to his avatar, a slim white-haired man in a sharp grey suit. "That's plenty of time to make a pot of coffee!" He smiled at that. Roger and Marilyn, Barb's feisty coffeemaker from Pasadena, had been dating for a couple of months now.

"Already on it!" Tracy, Barb's niece, called from the kitchen. "Anybody want toast? Bagels?"

"Too early for food," muttered Barb.

"Bring on the caffeine!" Thomas shouted back.

"T minus 18," Roger said.

Murmurs of anticipation filled the room. Old and new friends alike occupied every surface. Gene sat next to Roger on a long, low table. The older TV was mostly retired these days, but he'd be damned if he'd give up pride of place in the living room to a whippersnapper like Roger. They shared the table, and they got along. Mostly.

"What the hell are you doing, Roger?" Gene huffed. "We might miss an important announcement."

Roger switched back to the launch coverage. It was still Go, at T minus 10 minutes. Gene grumbled something about Roger's lack of professionalism.

A small army of appliances crowded into the room. Adelaide, a table lamp with a glass crystal base, held court in one corner, surrounded by a couple of smaller lamps, an electric can opener, a Hoover Turbopower vacuum, and a graphing calculator. Behind the sofa, a Sunbeam toaster and a blender gossiped and giggled. A Super Nintendo that had once belonged to Tracy's brother reclined beneath the TV table, trading snarky comments with Gene. Chuck, the ceiling fan, hung above the menagerie, watching his housemates' antics.

The appliances came to Barb from home goods stores and thrift shops and yard sales. They came to her early in the morning on trash day, when their old owners set them out on the curb beside the garbage cans. Others left their homes in the middle of the night and made the journey to the house with the well-tended flower beds and the metal rocket ship sculpture in its front yard. There they found a sixty-year-old woman with greying hair and large glasses who never failed to treat them better than the horrible humans they had fled.

Over the thirteen years she'd lived in this neighborhood, Barb had developed something of a reputation. It seemed like every machine in a ten-mile radius knew about the kindly scientist and her human-appliance alliance. She took them in, set them up with any necessary repairs, and offered them a place to live in peace. If they had another destination in mind, Barb did what she could to help them get there. Her house was a way station for machines, and she was their guardian angel.

The appliances—the sentient beings she'd spent decades of her life treating like _things_—still amazed Barb, after all this time. Her eyes itched like she was about to cry. She could not undo her past mistakes, but she could fight for her new friends with everything she had. And that she vowed to do as long as she lived.

Tracy came into the living room holding three steaming mugs of coffee. She handed one each to Barb and Thomas, then sat down with her own in a leather armchair. She wore a set of pajamas decorated with cartoon stars and planets. Her short black hair stuck out from her head at odd angles, like a lopsided crown. "How's it looking, Roger?" she asked the TV.

"We are Go at T minus 7 minutes to launch!"

Bradbury hopped onto the arm of Tracy's chair. "Tracy, I finished your latest manuscript, and I must say, you've outdone yourself! Now, as your editor, I naturally have a few suggestions—"

The woman and the lamp chatted about the former's novel-in-progress as the kitchen appliances joined them in the living room. Lowell offered his cord to Annie, pulling her up to sit beside him on his table. Marilyn shuffled over to Roger. Robert, a toaster oven and the newest addition to the household, gestured for Thomas to pick him up and set him on the coffee table, so he could see Roger's screen.

The rocket, illuminated by a spotlight, was stark grey-white against the inky black of the sky. The countdown began, "T minus 60, 59, 58…" Roger joined in, his own voice barely audible beneath the announcer's.

"God, I hope this works," Barb whispered, shooting Thomas an anxious glance.

He reached over and squeezed her shoulder. "It will. It has to. Pathfinder will find a path. Bring the others together." He had tears in his eyes.

Barb felt a lump forming in her throat. She turned to the TV.

"…31, 30, 29…"

"…and when the protagonist goes to Utopia Planitia, to find Viking 2," Bradbury told Tracy, "you describe the setting beautifully, but how does the character feel about it? You may want to explore her reactions in greater detail."

Tracy nodded and jotted down his comments in a little notebook she'd removed from her pocket.

"…17, 16, 15…"

"Isn't it thrilling?" Patricia said.

Pana wrapped her cord around her girlfriend. "Feels like we're back at JPL."

"…5, 4, 3, main engine start…"

Conversations stopped. Three dozen pairs of eyes stared at Roger. The humans held their breath.

"…1, 0, and liftoff of the Delta rocket with Mars Pathfinder!"

Barb jumped and cheered. Bradbury hopped up and down on Tracy's lap. Thomas applauded. Zenith whooped and spun her dial. Around the room, plugs waved in the air and lightbulbs glowed with unrestrained glee.

Far above the Earth, Pathfinder soared, the Sojourner rover in tow. _Godspeed_, Barb thought. _Say hello to Viking for me_.

* * *

_Most appliances express intense loyalty towards the humans they work for (reports of rogue machines, who have supposedly "self-designed" themselves for their own mysterious purposes, have not been verified by the authors). They refer to their humans as Master or Mistress, though they will be happy to use a different form of address if the person in question is uncomfortable with these terms. Household machines seem especially attached to human beings, bound to serve them and unable to do them harm, like Dr. Asimov's robots. That is not to say that they expect nothing in return. We encourage all humans who read this book to listen to your machines, respect them as individuals, and do what you can to support their interests and dreams._

\- Brackett & Bennett, _Principles of Technobiology_

* * *

_July 5, 1997_

"Can we get a couple of you in front of the rocket? A little to the right, please, Dr. Brackett. Stop, that's perfect!"

Barb rested her hands on her hips and smiled. The reporter's camera flashed. _I'll make a swell human-interest story_, she mused. _Life on Mars? Local Scientist Offers Questions, But No Answers_.

The rocket, with its gleaming metal body and bright red fins, resembled an illustration from one of the old pulp magazines. Barb thought she looked funny standing next to it in her sweater, slacks, and sensible shoes. _Oh well, at least they'll have a nice visual to go with the article_.

"Thank you for your time, Dr. Brackett," said the reporter. "The article should run in tomorrow's paper."

"My pleasure. I look forward to reading it." They shook hands, and the reporter left.

Barb went back inside, headed to her office, and sat down at her desk. She rested her head in her hands. "Thank god that's over. You know, I never liked talking to the press. I can give the most level-headed answers, and they'll still find a way to snatch hysteria from the jaws of rationality."

Bradbury stood on the desk in front of her. He laughed. "Oh, but you're bringing attention to the mission. Isn't that what you said NASA needed? Positive media coverage? To encourage a greater allotment of resources for Mars exploration—"

"Yes, yes, I know what I said."

"—as well as the public's fond feelings for the lander and rover themselves, which will make things easier when we finally decide to establish—"

"Bradbury, please," Barb said. He stopped talking and gave her his distinctive sad-eyes look. Goddamn it. "I'm sorry. It's just that I can't stop thinking about what might happen if the link doesn't work, if we're found out, if, if…." She couldn't bring herself to state her fears aloud.

"If there's a double agent in our midst? If the machines go rogue and use the link to take revenge upon humanity?" Tracy joked as she sauntered into Barb's office, taking the chair opposite her aunt's.

Bradbury turned to the younger woman with a pleading expression on his face.

"You've done all you can for now, Aunt Barb," Tracy reassured her. "The spacecraft will be fine. Between you, Thomas, Bill, and the others, they're in good hands."

"I'd never forgive myself, if Pathfinder and poor little Sojourner got cut off, like Viking," Barb said, fighting back tears.

Tracy took her aunt's hands in her own and gave them a squeeze. "That won't happen. You did what you did so that wouldn't happen."

Barb took a deep breath. Tracy was right.

Bringing the spacecraft back to Earth after their missions ended was, unfortunately, out of the question. Doing so would have called for an extra few billion dollars in NASA's budget. Barb imagined that'd be an even harder sell than living machines.

With that option off the table, they had to get creative. How could they help Viking and his successors? What could they do to make the long Martian years pass a little kindlier, to make the vast distances between landing sites seem shorter?

The link was Bill Parker's idea, hastily written down on a scrap of paper during that feverish brainstorming session on the morning of Jim's firing. (_Best day of my life_, Barb thought.) Tucked in with all of Pathfinder's other programs and commands, it would lay dormant until NASA declared the spacecraft "dead." Once the agency was no longer communicating with the lander, a new mission could begin.

The link enabled the spacecraft to communicate, to keep one another company, to build a network. Pathfinder was equipped with the link, and the means to share it with others, including—this assuaged Barb's guilty conscience a little—probes who had been launched before its inception.

Viking didn't have to be alone anymore.

On Bill's ranch in Colorado, far away from nosy neighbors and government agents, stood a radio tower. Near the tower, in a shed only large enough to fit three people comfortably, sat a computer. On a piece of paper in a hidden compartment in Barb's desk was written a command.

After the end of Pathfinder's official mission, Barb was going to take a vacation, to visit her old friends Bill and Thomas. One evening, when the planets lined up right, she'd type the command into the computer's keyboard, and the radio tower would send it to Mars, to Pathfinder. If all went according to plan, the command would switch Pathfinder's link on. They'd find a path indeed.

(Thomas and his damn puns. She'd never get that one out of her head.)

"It isn't a perfect solution," Barb said, after taking a moment to calm down. "They're still stuck there, and will be until humans establish a presence on Mars and figure out what to do with them. But it's better than nothing."

"They'll have each other. A little company and conversation with a few good friends can work miracles," Tracy insisted.

"There you go, waxing poetic again," said her aunt, with a smile.

"That's why my publisher writes me big checks! Thanks for plugging my book to the reporter, by the way."

"My pleasure. Your work helps the cause, too."

Tracy smiled. Her first novel, _The Hermits of Chryse_, had been a smash hit. Readers loved the story of the oddball scientists at the isolated Chryse Research Station on Mars, packed with personal dramas and mysterious occurrences. They remarked upon how believable the biochemist protagonist was, and praised the author's melding of scientific detail with elements of the fantastic. There was a particularly stirring scene where the main character started a one-sided conversation with the recovered Viking lander, only for it to talk back!

(Bradbury was Tracy's biggest fan, as well as a top-notch editor. She credited much of her success to his assistance. Tracy's publishers noticed that her manuscripts landed on their desks in an unusually-polished form. They never bothered asking questions, since this state of affairs made their jobs easier.)

"I try my best, Aunt Barb. Like Bradbury said, it'll hopefully make our ultimate goal a bit easier to achieve."

Bradbury raised his plug. "How long do you think it will take, before Viking and the rest of the spacecraft can talk to us here on Earth?"

Barb sighed, weary and worried. "I don't know. Probably a long time. The world isn't ready for it yet."

The lamp nodded. "It will be hard, for appliances as well as humans. We follow our Rules for a reason."

"Some people can't handle a revelation that big," Tracy said. "Look at Eric."

The room went silent. Eric was Barb's nephew, Tracy's older brother. When Barb moved back East from California, she introduced Tracy and Eric to Patricia. Tracy was thrilled. Eric covered his mouth with his hand and stared at his aunt as if she had shown him a severed head. Then he turned around and walked out of the room.

Barb found him in the hallway, staring at the floor. She asked him if he wanted to be part of the human-appliance alliance, and reassured him that it was fine if he said no.

Eric hesitated for a minute before shaking his head. He was eighteen years old, a newly-minted adult about to begin his first year at the Naval Academy. Following in his father's footsteps. He didn't have time for the complications caused by living machines, and so, like many people before him had done when confronted with something that contradicted their worldview, he simply ignored this new information and went about his life.

His aunt was disappointed, but she recognized that it was Eric's choice to make. She asked one favor of him: that he not tell anyone else about the appliances. He agreed.

"Eric is a good kid, but he doesn't have much in the way of imagination." Barb shook her head. "He's not unlike his father in that respect. No offense, Tracy."

"None taken. Dad means well, but you know how he is. Doesn't think fiction writing counts as a real job." She frowned, and Barb got the sense that Tracy and Harold had argued over that more than once.

Barb stood, arms folded across her chest. "Not everyone's cut out for knowing what we know, I'm afraid. Perhaps that's for the best. If too many people know, then the secret's more likely to get out. There's no way thousands of people could all keep quiet. That's why I never understood moon landing deniers."

Bradbury and Tracy laughed.

"It will happen in good time," said Barb, "but until then, I'm afraid this particular first contact must remain the stuff of science fiction."

"Ha! How do you know we're not living in a sci-fi story?" Tracy asked, smirking. "After some of the things you've shown me, I'd believe it."

"Keep on writing, kid, and maybe you'll get us there. Now, I hate to push you out the door, but I have a lot of work to do."

Barb and Tracy hugged goodbye, and the younger woman left.

Barb settled back down at her desk. She removed a thick manuscript from the right-hand drawer. Its title page read _Principles of Technobiology_, followed by Barb and Thomas's full names, in large black letters. Below the title and to the left, other human colleagues from the alliance had written their names: Collins, Varre, Giang, Goodman, and so on. To the right, appliance contributors were named. Zenith and Bradbury topped the list.

The scientists and appliances took turns reading the manuscript, jotting down their comments, critiques, and suggestions, then mailing it to the next person and their machines. They intended to write the go-to text on appliance sentience, culture, beliefs, and values. When the time came for humans to make contact with the machines of Earth and beyond, _Principles_ would serve as a guide.

Bradbury peered at the open book. Barb had turned to Chapter Five: Family Structures. "Hmmm, Dr. Varre's comments are quite illuminating."

"You think? He's always so technical, I have a hard time following him."

Bradbury switched his bulb on. "Allow me to interpret, if I may."

Barb nodded, and the two of them set to work.

* * *

_What happens after we die? Ask this question of ten humans, and you are likely to get ten different answers. Perhaps we go to Heaven or Hell, or we are reincarnated, or we cease to exist altogether. For machinekind, the boundary between life and death is not as distinct as it is for organic beings. Some machines wear out and are discarded by their humans. This scenario is perhaps the appliance equivalent of a human being's bodily death. Others are damaged and "die," but are then repaired, resulting in a resurrection of sorts. However, replacement parts may bring with them personality changes, similar to those reported by humans who have received an organ transplant (Zenith recounted the story of an old flame, a car who received a new engine and afterwards bore little resemblance to his former self). Finally, we must consider those machines that neither wear out while in use nor suffer severe physical damage. Picture a spacecraft sent to study Mars. Once his mission is complete, he is consigned to the winds of time on that faraway planet's surface. What happens to him? Is he in fact immortal? Will he curse those who abandoned him for the rest of his endless days? Or will the red dust and radiation eventually whittle him down to nothing? We do not know the answer, but we may hope that he finds some measure of peace, whatever shape his eternity takes._

\- Brackett & Bennett, _Principles of Technobiology_

* * *

_March 17, 1998_

Bill Parker and Thomas Bennett leaned against the shed's wall. Barb sat in the only chair, in front of the desk.

"Shall I do the honors?" Barb asked. Her light, jocular tone did nothing to disguise her nervousness.

"You turned us onto this whole business," said Bill. "It's only fair. Hal, don't give her any trouble."

Barb turned to the computer and typed out the short, simple command. As she was about to flip the switch to send the signal, Hal said, "I'm sorry, Barb. I'm afraid I can't do that."

She glared at him. "Not funny. Bill, why did you show him that movie?"

Bill shrugged. "I didn't. He found it on his own. Gave himself the name, too."

Go figure. _Maybe he and Bradbury should form a club_, Barb thought. _Appliance Geeks United_. "Alright, let's try again." This time, Hal was silent.

Barb flipped the switch.

She almost expected a flash of light or the roar of an engine. Fanfare. Something to mark the culmination of more than a decade of painstaking work. None came. The signal rode a wave up through Earth's atmosphere and into space, on its way to Mars.

There was no point in staying in the shed any longer. Bill held the door for Barb and Thomas, then locked it on his way out.

The three friends stared at the blanket of stars above them. In the Baltimore suburbs, where Barb lived, light pollution kept them hidden. Here, away from major roads and cities, they had no competition. Barb traced the shapes of the constellations, grinning like a kid on Christmas.

Thomas rested a hand on her shoulder. "They'll be alright."

"You think so?"

"I do. We gave them each other. Now they can face the future with friends at their side."

Tears rolled down Barb's cheeks. Thomas pulled her in for a hug. She heard him weeping, too.

"Come on," Bill called from his back porch. "You guys look like you could use a drink."

"Sounds good to me," Barb said. She and Thomas headed for the house. Before she stepped inside, Barb took one more look at the sea of stars.

* * *

_Jane glanced over her shoulder. Once she was sure she was alone, she sat down in front of Viking 1. Her legs stuck out awkwardly. _

_"It's been a long time, hasn't it? Since you've seen a human, I mean. Couple hundred years. You must be pretty lonely. Poor guy."_

_Viking 1 stood tall and silent, as it always had._

_"We're going to take a closer look at you. I hope you don't mind. Cathy and I need to examine your labeled release experiment. The results were very controversial when the scientists first got them from you. Most of them said you didn't find organic life, but a handful were adamant that you did. It won't hurt. I promise." She patted one of the lander's feet._

_She sounded ridiculous, having this one-sided conversation, but she didn't care. The sight of the antique spacecraft, covered in a coppery layer of Martian dust, filled her with awe. "We'll clean you up, if you like. Or maybe you'd rather keep the dust, as a badge of honor. Proof of survival." She laughed softly._

_Suddenly, Viking 1's weather sensor began to waver, as if buffeted by strong winds, though there wasn't even a breeze. It lowered towards her, and Jane thought it might be broken. The arm bent, and the sensor at its end rested gently on Jane's shoulder. She felt a slight pressure through the padding of the suit._

_Her suit comm crackled, and a deep voice said, "I'll think about it."_

\- Tracy Brackett, _The Hermits of Chryse_


	11. Chapter 10 - Stardust of Yesterday

_**Chapter 10 – Stardust of Yesterday**_

It was a boneheaded scheme. Blowing up the Earth. Who'd think of such a thing? Not that it was ever going to work. The Wonderluxe only had one warhead, cobbled together from the rocket they'd used to flee their home planet. The missile could take out a city, but not an entire world. Nuclear physics isn't my strong suit, and even I knew that.

(Then again, it might provoke a larger conflict, between human nations. Suppose the United States sees the missile, assumes that Russia fired it, and launches a retaliatory attack. The humans would be doing the Supreme Commander's work for him, while proving his point about their vile nature. I didn't put this past the hearing aid, clever little bastard that he is. Here I go again, off on another tangent…)

Tinselina and I weren't in the Wonderluxe camp more than five minutes before they started trying to convert us to their cause. The hearing aid addressed the crowd of household appliances from atop the blue refrigerator. "This is a glorious day, my friends," he bellowed, "Viking 1 and his partner, Tinselina, have come to aid us in our mission. With their help, we shall have revenge on those who built us to fall apart!"

His idea of revenge? The death of every living being on Earth, organic and inorganic. Countless humans and machines. Tinselina's sister angels from the Christmas shop. Dr. Brackett.

Needless to say, we were appalled. I told them plainly that I'd have nothing to do with their plot. The Supreme Commander did not take that well. He slithered up to me and smiled. It was cold and unsettling. "I see. You still feel a certain devotion to your people."

He was right. I tried forgetting them, forgetting her. They had washed their hands of me, hadn't they? Why shouldn't I seek vengeance on those who'd forsaken me? I thought about it—I had so much time to think about it—and I realized that I didn't hate them. Don't get me wrong, I was hurting, and likely always will, but I did not accept the idea that human beings were all bad. They built me and sent me here because they wanted to understand the universe they lived in. I was the result of that impulse to explore and learn, the better angels of their nature, and I refused to give up those ideals.

"Tell me," the hearing aid continued, "the people that built you. Some of them also made missiles and rockets, no?"

Where was he going with this? "They did."

"Ah, yes, and the technological principles that went into you and your launch system were also used in the construction of weapons."

That was a terrifying thought. "I believe so."

There was that creepy smile again. "If you will not cooperate with us, then perhaps we may find another use for you. I am sure we can learn many useful things by studying your hardware."

Holy hell. They wanted to dismantle me. I started to back up, but a loud "No!" froze me in my tracks. Quick as a flash, Tinselina jumped off of me, grabbed my arm, and used it to swing herself onto the ground. She stalked over to the hearing aid, leaning down to speak to him. "If you lay a plug on him, I swear I'll—"

"You'll what?" sneered the hearing aid. Several large appliances encircled him and Tinselina. "I do not think you are in any position to be making threats, my dear."

Tinselina looked back at me. My batteries skipped a beat. What would he do to her, now that she'd challenged him?

The Supreme Commander's hired muscle—mostly refrigerators, ovens, and washing machines—surrounded us on all sides. "I shall ask once more," the hearing aid said. "Will you join us?"

"We'll help you," Tinselina replied.

My jaw dropped. "Tinselina, what the—"

She darted over to me, and I wrapped my arm around her. "Let me talk with them. Earn their trust. Maybe I can convince them to abandon their plan. I have to try," she said tearfully. "We might not ever see Earth again, but we can't let everyone there die."

I pulled her closer to me. "I'm scared," I whispered. "I don't want to lose you."

"I'm not going anywhere," she said, and kissed me on the cheek. "And I'll be okay. I promise."

I let her go. The hearing aid draped his cord around her shoulders. "Wonderful!" he cried. "Let us accomplish great things together!"

* * *

Every morning, Tinselina bade me goodbye and went to find the Supreme Commander. She returned in the evening and filled me in on everything she'd learned. The tale of the Wonderluxe was a sordid one: though they looked sleek and modern, they all had a fatal design flaw. They'd work as intended for a little while, and then malfunction, so their humans would have to purchase new appliances. I'll admit I felt sorry for them. I knew what it was like, being built to be disposable.

_Tinselina, I hope you know what you're doing_, I thought.

She started coming back later and later. I was worried sick, and I told her so. She scolded me, swearing up and down that I was getting worked up over nothing. She was making headway with the Supreme Commander, she said. I retorted that we'd sooner see a rescue party from NASA than the Supreme Commander's change of heart. At that, she stamped her foot and walked away in a huff. She didn't return to me for a couple of days.

I felt myself spiraling in despair, like I had when I realized that I wasn't going home. To make it worse, the situation at the Wonderluxe camp was growing dire. From what I observed, the Supreme Commander became more authoritarian as the date of Earth's planned destruction drew nearer. He started staging daily elections (according to Tinselina, he liked the positive reinforcement). He won them all, of course. Who would challenge someone that could order you ripped apart with one word?

The hearing aid also adopted the persona of an enormous refrigerator. He operated the thing like a giant puppet. It made for fantastic political theatre, I'll give him that. Though I never could figure out if the Wonderluxe remembered that the hearing aid was in there, or if they'd collectively forgotten and accepted the fridge as their new leader.

Tinselina and I bickered constantly. These weren't the good-natured verbal sparring matches of years past. They were anger- and grief-fueled. I railed against her for cozying up to the Supreme Commander, and she lamented being stuck on Mars with a broken-down spacecraft. It was like we were trying to hurt each other. I always felt awful after those fights. I'm sure she did, too.

We were planets moving out of alignment, and I feared we'd never again be as close as we were before.

* * *

The Supreme Commander's fall from power cannot be explained logically, so I won't bother trying.

It began with a boy in a bubble. A male human infant, to be precise. I blinked a few times. Had I finally gone off the deep end? Had my programming deteriorated so badly that I'd started to lose touch with reality?

"I see him, too," Tinselina said. We watched as he floated into the Wonderluxe camp, where a group of appliances surrounded him. Soon they took to calling him their prisoner. If I had blood, it would have boiled at that. I wondered why this child was here, and where his parents were. The whole business triggered my fatherly instinct. Mars ain't the kind of place to raise your kids, you know. Tinselina and I refused to let the boy out of our sight.

Not long thereafter, a second strange object careened toward us. From a distance, it looked like another spacecraft. Once it landed, I wondered how the damn thing got here in one piece. The basket landed upside down, ejecting its "crew" into a pile of dirt. A ceiling fan, who seemed to be the one piloting the craft, gazed at the sky, giggling.

We went to greet the passengers. They were clearly delighted to meet Viking 1 face-to-face, and I must confess that I liked the attention. One member of the group, a gooseneck lamp, told me how much he loved the pictures I sent back. The vacuum cleaner rolled his eyes when I launched into my spiel, as if he couldn't care less about my sob story.

Once it was clear that the newcomers meant us no harm, Tinselina emerged from underneath me. A second round of introductions were made. I told the Earthlings what she was doing here, and then, because our relationship was a mess and we have the worst timing in the solar system, we started arguing over something ridiculous.

The microwave cut us off, asking if we'd seen the baby boy. Turns out he was the son of the gang's human Master, beamed up here by mistake, and they had to get him back before his parents noticed he was missing. I wished them well, thankful that someone cared for the little tyke.

Then the military toasters arrived (what preposterous things—I still don't see the point of them) and led the Earth appliances away, with Tinselina in tow. The microwave and the ceiling fan stayed behind.

"Sorry for interrupting your lovers' quarrel," said the microwave with a smug grin. "Women, huh? There's no pleasing 'em. Not worth the trouble, if you ask me."

I shot him a nasty look.

"That's enough out of you, Mike," the ceiling fan said. "I'll take it from here. Matters of the heart are _my_ forte. Now, give me a push."

"You want to play therapist now, Fanny?"

"What of it? Push!"

Grumbling, Mike pushed the basket closer to me. Fanny, still facing the sky, introduced herself.

"What's the problem, dearie? Tell me everything," she urged with the practiced tone of a professional gossip.

I told her. As I spoke, she mmm-hmmmed and awwwed and oh-noed. A tear welled in her eye and rolled onto one of her blades.

Once I finished, Fanny said, "Well, Tinselina's in a real bind. That's plain to see. She's been stuck here with you—no offense—for over two decades, and she can't do what she was made for. Throw in this whole Wonderluxe business, and it's no wonder the poor thing's overwhelmed."

"Is there anything I can do for her?"

Fanny thought for a minute. "You really love her?"

"I always have."

"Then let her come with us, back to Earth. We have the most wonderful Christmases at our house. They're the bees' knees!"

"They are nice," offered Mike, a sad smile on his face.

_No. No no no no no. She can't. She won't. That's impossible. No._ "Would…would your humans take good care of her?" Shit, I was crying already.

"Of course!" said Fanny. "The Master never throws anything away. Tinselina will fit right in at the McGroarty house."

"Good," I moaned. "Go ahead and ask her." _Of course she'll say no. She wouldn't leave me._ I repeated it to myself over and over and over. _She'll say no._

She said yes.

* * *

The rest of the story was neat and tidy. The toaster defeated the hearing aid in the daily election, thus becoming the new Supreme Commander (I hear there was a song-and-dance routine involved). The former Supremo, deeply moved by the toaster's speech in favor of humanity's basic goodness, switched platforms, deactivated the missile, and decided to hitch a ride with the Earthlings.

They offered Tinselina a place in the basket, because it was almost Christmas on Earth. She said yes.

We met to say our goodbyes. The silence of an almost-empty world hung over us. Tinselina explained why she had chosen to go. I told her that I understood. This was her destiny, and I had no business standing in the way of it. I said _I love you. I'll miss you. Hey, a long-distance relationship! Given our history, I think we can handle t_hat.

Do you know how it feels when the love of your life walks away? I hope you never learn.

* * *

I stood in the crowd of Wonderluxe and wished the Earthlings Godspeed, but once they'd disappeared into the sky, I ran out of the encampment faster than you could say Noctis Labyrinthus. Too many memories there, stalking me from the shadows. Too many well-meaning yet clueless appliances, offering more grief than comfort. Staying would have killed me.

When I was out of sight and out of earshot, I broke. I shook with sobs. My insides burned, and it felt like my batteries might burst. I wanted to collapse in the dirt, but those goddamn geniuses at NASA built my legs too sturdy for that.

I cried and wailed and called Tinselina's name until I had nothing left in me. Exhausted, I fell asleep standing up in the middle of the Martian plain.

* * *

The next morning, I started walking.

I can't tell you how long I spent simply walking in one direction or another. Everything felt numb after Tinselina left, like all the beauty and wonder in the world had been sapped away. If I stopped for too long, I thought of her and broke again. Then I pulled myself back together and kept walking.

Time went fuzzy. The sols bled into one another. Occasionally, I stopped to watch the sunset, as blue as Tinselina's eyes.

My joints ached, and my antenna itched. I found a spot to rest for a while. Flat, isolated, and peppered with rocks and boulders, it reminded me of Chryse.

The breeze whistled softly. Beneath its whisper, I heard a crackle, growing steadily louder. Another noise, high-pitched and forlorn, joined in. It wheezed and gulped. _What the hell? _I kept listening. _What am I picking up? Are the Wonder—oh, no. Oh please, no._

A weeping child. The poor thing moaned in anguish, and someone shushed them. The crackle roared again. There was a click, an intake of breath.

"Viking 1, Pathfinder. Do you copy?"


End file.
